You'll Be the Death of Me
by SilasBrandybuck
Summary: "Much tried. He honestly did. But there was no good bit to any of this." Every chain has a weak link, even in a group as close-knit as Robin's gang, and the strength of that link is about to be tested. Set mid-season one, rated for whump and thematic elements. Some Robin/Marian, and juuuust a hint of Will/Djaq. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**This began as a short n' sweet little one-shot that put down roots in my computer and grew into something far bigger. Robin's attitude toward Much was getting on my nerves, because he simply assumes that Much will always be there, will always come back, won't ever really break down under the pressure. And that attitude is never really challenged, because Much loves Robin to pieces, and the one time the screenwriters wrote about Much being captured and in danger... he ended up lord of Bonchurch. Which was kind of brilliant, but didn't give Robin the wake-up call he needs, nor did it give the gang a chance to see what Much is really made of.**

**Set a few months after Djaq joins the gang, so no spoilers to speak of. Rated for whumped outlaws and related angst.**

"I just want to say that if this turns out awfully, nobody had better come crying to me about it!"

Allan rolled his eyes at Much's back, earning a quiet snort from Will. The long-suffering manservant continued to march along, slapping at low-hanging branches, oblivious to their amusement. He had taken the lead along with Robin, apparently deciding that if he were stuck on this "ridiculous, clearly suicidal" mission, he might as well be able to see danger when it approached. Djaq had scouted on ahead of them all, and John strode silently at the rear.

Robin flung a grin across at Much.

"Would you stop worrying?" He hefted the bundle of assorted cast-off clothing, the disguises that would get them into Nottingham today. "Nothing's going to go wrong. Come on – if you were guarding the gate, would you think to stop a handful of beggars entering Nottingham on market day?"

"If they were us, yes," Much quipped tersely. "I mean, it's not as if we're complete strangers to them, really. We've knocked so many of them on the head, it's a wonder we're not being invited to christenings and all that."

"Oh, give it a rest, would ya?" Allan groaned, slinging his own bundle over his shoulder. "We've heard nothin' but your naggin' the whole way here!" The group came to a stop beside Djaq a few yards from the tree line, where they could see farmers and families trailing through the gates of Nottingham. From the sharp glare Much fixed him with, practically a sulk, Allan knew he'd irritated the man, but it was only fair – after all, they'd had to listen to his fretting the entire morning _and_ the walk here. Yeah, the plan was risky, but this was the best chance they'd have of getting to the taxes before they were sent off. Vasey was practically paranoid due to the continued successes of their raids, and had reportedly taken to storing this season's taxes in his own private quarters, safely under his own eye and that of his personal guards. The source of this information – Robin's "little bird", Allan would bet in gold – had assured them that the money would stay put during the Sheriff's trip to London this week. Sure, Gisborne would probably be expecting them to try something, but he couldn't know exactly when and how, and Robin simply couldn't pass this opportunity up.

As they all shrugged into the tattered clothing, Much stuffed his arm through the sleeve of a moth-eaten green jacket and pronounced, "Fine, I'll shut up. But just you wait and see – something will go wrong. It'll turn out to be a trap, or the Sheriff won't actually be gone at all, or-"

"Much, _enough_."

Much tightened his lips, but stayed blessedly silent. Robin gave him another stern look, to make sure his order would stick this time, then turned to face the rest of the gang, everyone swathed in frayed cloaks and hunched against the slight chill. "All right, stay sharp. Take it slowly, and keep the next one up in sight. We all meet behind the inn." He pulled his grey hood low against the drizzle and led the way out of the trees to join the long line of wagons and people on foot.

Joining the crowd, settling into an identical determined plod was easy as breathing for Allan. He saw Robin slide behind a cart full of produce up ahead, and glanced casually around to see Will and Djaq several yards back… walking together. Idiots. Robin had just told them all to split up, first off, and sticking close to Djaq, while not a bad thing in itself, made you twice as noticeable. If anyone was going to be picked out of the crowd, it'd be her. Too late now, though later he'd personally cuff Will around the ears for not using his head. Allan ground his teeth and looked to the gates instead.

As they had expected, the guards were more interested in checking the carts and wagons than in interrogating a single grimy peasant entering on foot. Allan received no more than a passing glance, and he easily wound his way through the throng to the alley beside the Trip to Jerusalem Inn, where Robin was shaking rain from his hair and cloak. Within a few minutes, the entire gang was safely gathered together, Little John striding up last. His shoulders carved a broader-than-usual path through the crowd due to the load of staves and timber he carried, and Allan ducked sharply to keep from being whacked in the head as the big man turned to face Robin.

The Rochedale outlaw had to give their leader credit for boldness: tucked carefully amongst the cloth-wrapped lengths of wood was each member's blade and scabbard. It had been Will's idea to wrap the swords and carry them in with selected lengths of wood, all muffled with cloth, supposedly to avoid damage. He'd spent all day yesterday working with his knife and hatchet as if he were actually going to sell his handiwork, just in case John was stopped. John handed Allan his sword and delved back into the bundle to retrieve Robin's curved Saracen blade. Bows and quivers had been left at the camp, the former too long and the latter too thick to fit alongside the wood.

Despite the grey weather, the marketplace was shoulder-to-shoulder and clamored with shopkeepers desperate to sell their wares. The gang slipped easily into the throng and meandered toward the castle. Will got them through the locked side door without incident and soon they were all swapping grins and tossing back their hoods inside the castle itself.

The air was subdued within the thick walls, the inclement weather lulling servants and nobles alike into a drowse. Allan and the others jogged cautiously behind Robin through corridor after corridor, barely seeing or hearing anyone, apart from a serving girl or a yawning guard who never knew they were there.

"Where is everybody?" Will murmured as they paused to listen at a turning, his serious gaze sweeping the area. Giving the carpenter a light tap on the head from behind, Allan replied, "Sheriff's gone, mate, remember? Everyone's prob'ly still in bed. Wouldn't you be?" He dodged a half-hearted swat from Will and they continued warily up the stairs, only a floor away from the Sheriff's rooms now. The kid was right, though: it was uncomfortably quiet, the soles of their boots scuffing loudly against the stone despite their best efforts. Allan almost flinched when Much spoke up again, voice vibrating with anxiety as he edged closer to Robin.

"Master, please – this doesn't feel right." The perplexed scowl Robin threw over his shoulder at Much was gentler than the one Allan wore. Even Djaq, slinking quietly behind the rest of the gang, released a sigh at his words. It was one thing to go on about the dangers of a mission beforehand, but once you were on the bloody thing, actually _doing_ it…. Besides, Allan could almost feel the sleek shapes of the silver on his fingertips, and he wasn't going to let a coward's worrying stop him now.

"If you'd just _listen_-" Much and the gang drew up short as Robin turned abruptly, halting them all in the shelter of the stairwell. Judging by the manservant's suddenly deflated posture, Much had also caught the dangerous glitter in his leader's eyes.

"Would you shut up, Much?" Robin snapped under his breath, "We're nearly there!" He turned again to check the hall, and John rumbled, "Talk like that brings ill luck." Were the situation any less perilous, Allan might have laughed at how quickly the blood rushed to redden Much's face; instead he just settled for quipping, "Yeah – I know you like the real tough ones, but let's not get over-eager, shall we?"

Robin shushed them all with a hiss and a scowl. The next few minutes were a tentative dance from one alcove to another, finally ending with them facing Vasey's own door. Will slipped to the front, the others keeping a lookout while he inspected the lock. He gave a bemused huff and straightened only a second later, answering Robin's querying look with, "It's not locked." Heads turned, disbelieving glances exchanged, and Will gave the panel a light shove as proof. It swung inward with hardly a sound – obviously the Sheriff didn't appreciate being woken by screeching hinges, which was all the better for them.

"Why are there no guards?"whispered Much, this time earning a "Shh!" from Djaq as she followed the others into the room. Per their usual system, that left Much behind as lookout, and he sputtered for a moment before darting inside too, leaving the door cracked just enough to peek into the hallway.

The room was almost pitch-dark. A peculiar smell made Allan hesitate; it was thin, almost animal, but nothing strong or musky. John's startled oath and a sudden frenzy of caged wings solved that mystery a moment later. So the Sheriff kept birds, tiny ones, by the sound of it… Allan chose not to dwell on the incongruity of such a heartless man keeping such fragile pets, instead questing across the room, feeling his way to the shutters.

"Yeah, there we are." Watery sunlight dribbled into the room, bright enough after skulking through the dark corridors. He turned to see Robin spinning slowly on his heel, narrowed eyes scanning all the possible nooks and crannies of the room.

"Wardrobe?" Will offered. "Could be a false bottom." John scrutinized the wicker birdcages and their ceiling fastenings, but shook his head a moment later. Allan was fingering a tapestry beside the silk-covered bed, idly wondering if there was a secret shelf behind it, when Robin dropped out of his peripheral vision. From boot-level, a delighted, "Ha!" drew everyone's attention, and Robin reappeared, dragging a chest from beneath the bed. Will looked a little disappointed, and traded surprised looks with Allan before closing the wardrobe and crouching beside Robin to deal with the lock. Djaq appeared with the bags, and after a few long seconds, Will had the coffer open.

An almost tangible thrum of energy went through the room at the sight of the mounded silver pieces. The chest was nearly full to bursting, and the three of them set to work straightaway, the two men shoveling handfuls into the bag Djaq held open. Left idle for the moment, Allan joined Much by the doors while Little John sidled up to the open window to peer out.

The blue eyes flicked only once to Allan's face before Much resumed his lookout. Obviously, what little sense of humor the man possessed would not be making an appearance today. Lovely. That'd make for a cheery walk back if he didn't pull out of this sulk soon.

"All clear?" Allan asked, idly hoping a little conversation would help. Worth a shot, at least.

"Yes." Much's tone was grim, which made no sense at all, unless he was actually hoping he'd be proved right about the impending disaster. The man never could resist an invitation to talk, though, and he continued in a rush, "Look, I know I'm… It's just- Something just doesn't feel right about this one." Djaq murmured something across the room, and Robin's answering chuckle caught Much's attention, like most things Robin did, and Allan waited with growing irritation for the man to turn back around, check the corridor again, and continue, "I don't know why. But the sooner we're out of here, the happier I'll be."

Allan scoffed quietly, drawing the man's frowning gaze again.

"I'm not bein' funny, but haven't you ever heard about not lookin' a gift horse in the mouth?" He received his answer from the wary curiosity that spread across Much's face like butter on bread, and sighed. "It's like… You get somethin' good, you don't go lookin' for somethin' wrong with it. _This_, right here, this is good." He nodded over Much's shoulder at the rest of the gang tying off the bags of money.

"All right – excellent work, lads!" Robin crowed, tossing a heavy sack to John. The archer handed one each to Much and Allan as Will replaced the chest and crossed to close the shutters, sealing out the daylight. The weight of the silver was a beautiful thing in Allan's palm. He was gratified to see that their leader had taken his suggestion this time around; it only made sense that they split up the money, just in case one or more of them were caught. This way, at least some of the money stayed out of Vasey's greedy hands, and ended up in their own stores, where it belonged.

"So, same way out?" Allan asked, securing the money at his belt and loosening his sword in its scabbard, just in case. The gang clustered together in the darkness, and Allan caught the mischievous twinkle in Robin's eyes as he leaned past Much to scan the corridor.

"Wouldn't it be a shame to take this and leave the Sheriff with all that money in the strong room…?" Much visibly swelled at his words, a whole new level of anxiety widening his eyes. Luckily, the rest of the gang showed a similar lack of enthusiasm, John going so far as to chide, "Robin…" The outlaw leader had the good grace to look sheepish, at least, and sighed reluctantly.

The corridors remained still and silent, and even Allan had to admit – only to himself– that this mission was turning out too neatly. Perhaps driven by the same sense of unease, Robin led them at a determined pace through the halls, heading for their planned exit by the kitchens. They had barely cleared the stairs to the lower level, however, when echoes of running feet made Robin motion hastily to take cover. Before they had each taken more than a step to scatter, the unmistakable bark of Gisborne's voice filled the stairwell.

"Stop them! Don't let-"

Then Robin was snapping, "Run!" and they all took to their heels, sprinting down the corridor ahead like the devil was a pace behind, and that wasn't far from the truth. Boots clattered on the stairs they had just vacated, and Allan heard the chink of metal on metal behind them.

"There!"

Allan risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Gisborne's wolf-lean figure leading the guards in pursuit. His boots slipped on the smooth stone and it was only Will's quick arm that kept him up and moving. _Blast_ it. How on earth had Gisborne even known they were here? A second set of guards rounded the corner ahead of them and Robin snarled, ducking into a side hall and drawing his gang with him.

"He's… He's blocking us in…." Djaq panted, calling ahead to their leader. She was abruptly proven right as they all staggered to a full stop, their vision blocked by stone walls and a single locked door at the end of the corridor. Forming up with their backs to the door, swords at the ready, Allan and Much took the foremost positions, Robin and Djaq a step behind them. Will worked frantically at the lock or hinges or something behind them, John standing ready to lend his strength the instant Will gave the signal.

"It's different – the lock's all wrong!" the young carpenter exclaimed, dropping dread into the pit of Allan's stomach. This _was_ a trap, had to be. Much was going to preen himself for weeks over this…. But the man beside him didn't say a word, just threw an impatient stare over his shoulder at Will's words.

Robin simply barked, "Get it open, Will! Do it!" Much shifted his stance and drew a deep breath as the first soldiers rounded the corner, Gisborne darting in their midst like a hound on a scent. The first guards hesitated, probably knowing the outlaws had the advantage here, being far more used to fighting in restricted space. Gisborne shouldered his way to the front, sneering triumphantly at the cornered men.

"Checkmate, Hood!" His cold eyes flickered over their meager ranks, the entirety of Robin Hood's band trapped like vermin. To Allan's discomfort, his gaze lingered on the bags of silver at their belts, and Allan abandoned his half-formed idea of begging for mercy if the worst happened. There'd be no mercy from this one, not a whit. Leather creaked gently as Gisborne called over the gang's heads to Robin, "I'm a generous man. Give yourselves up now, and you'll spend a few days in the dungeons – alive – until the Sheriff returns. Give you time to repent of your sins… if the Lord will take you."

"Why, how sweet of you, Gisborne!" came the reply, delivered in mocking tones over Allan's head. A trickle of disappointment, fear, something, found its way into Allan's chest as he realized they were about to fight their way out again. Robin wasn't even going to consider Guy's offer, which left them imprisoned, but alive. "But I'm afraid we'll have to decline your gracious invitation..." A solid _thunk_ of metal into wood announced Will's hatchet biting into the oak around the hinges, and Gisborne's jaw tightened convulsively before he bellowed, "Kill them!"

A wave of black-and-yellow cloth and armor surged forward, and Allan had no more time to think. His height and dexterity kept the first man at bay until Allan's sword-hilt bashed his head into the wall, and he met the next with a shivering clang of steel on steel. Beside him, Much fought with determination that spoke of years fighting the Saracens. Still, there were half a dozen guards pressing in against them, and it took all Allan's skill to hold his ground.

"You want to hurry it up a bit?" he called roughly over his shoulder, parrying a killing stroke to his neck. He could practically feel Robin fuming behind him, desperate to leap into the fray and defend his men, but there was no chance for Allan to give up his place. The Sheriff's lieutenant stood with the waiting men, impatience drawing his features into a wolf-like snarl.

"You're incompetent, all of you!" The lieutenant drew his own sword and began to shoulder past his men again, prompting Much to call, "Master?", and Robin to shout, "Will, _now_!" Wood splintered suddenly, as if in obedience to Robin's command, and Allan allowed himself a smirk as Little John's roar echoed in the air. Daylight poured in behind him as the door toppled from its hinges, and Gisborne's face contorted with fury. He shoved his own man aside and lunged at the two outlaws, slamming Allan's sword aside and sending him reeling with a boot to his midriff. Allan nearly crushed Djaq against the wall, and before he could catch his breath to defend himself, Allan felt the world lurch as Will's iron grip dragged him through the doorway, where John was already standing in the castle courtyard, staff ready to forge a path to safety.

Djaq darted past, leaving Robin and Much holding Gisborne off. They had worked their way backward to the door, and were only a few paces away from the damp, open air. Much kicked a guard backward into Gisborne's path, and waved Robin out behind him.

"Robin, go!" Robin ducked and slipped to safety, but before they had taken more than a step toward town, waiting to hear Much catch up, a jangle of steel against stone drew their eyes back to the remaining member of the gang, crushed against the doorframe by Gisborne's arm, his sword out of reach on the ground. Much's eyes were fixed on the lieutenant's face mere inches from his, and he strained for air past the leather-clad arm against his throat. A few stray raindrops pattered onto the sleek length of Gisborne's blade, the tip digging into the manservant's chest.

"Hood!"

The few yards between the gang and Gisborne might as well have been miles, but Robin tensed as if he were about to fly across them anyway.

"Got you now…" Gisborne purred, shaking the hair from his eyes with a triumphant grin. "Not going run off and leave your friend here, are you?" A jerk of his head summoned the remaining guards, who began to pick their way over their companions' unconscious forms toward the door. None of the gang moved, despite the voice in Allan's head screaming for him to run, to get out while he had the chance. Still pinned, Much managed to turn his head enough to catch Robin's eye; his choked voice held a question.

"Master…?"

Robin's jaw was tight, eyes dark and smoldering. When Much's voice reached them, however, Allan saw Robin start to shake his head, a warning light coming into his glare. There was a pause, a suspended moment's confusion: Robin refusing to rescue anyone was unheard of, but especially his own servant? Maybe the hardened crusader in Robin was stronger than the friend…. With these odds, Allan could hardly blame him.

"Much, don't-"

With speed Allan had seldom seen in the man, Much struck Gisborne's blade aside and brought his knee up savagely between the man's legs. The lieutenant doubled over, his grip loosening enough for Much to scrabble up his own sword and parry the first guard's blade as the men swarmed to defend their fallen leader.

"Go! Run!" Much's shout whipped them all into movement. Will blurred past Allan and caught Robin across the chest as he tried to reach Much, and Allan captured the archer's other arm, propelling him between them toward town. A pained cry made Allan look back as they ran, and he saw Much stagger a step or two before Gisborne, somehow upright again, slammed a gloved fist into Much's head and he crumpled to the ground.

Djaq slipped into position behind them and John led the way, plowing into the crowd without pause. After the first few moments of struggling against them, Robin fell into a sprint along with them, not replying when Will panted, "He's doin' it for us… Knows we'll come back later…." As they raced past the flummoxed gate-guards, Allan couldn't help but wonder if the kid's optimism had gotten the better of him. He hadn't seen the hatred on Gisborne's face as Much fell. Much might not make it so far as the dungeons.

**Reviews earn the reviewer a plushie outlaw of their choosing (while supplies last)! :D**

**~ Si**


	2. Chapter 2

**First off, you guys are all awesome. It's wonderful to turn on my computer and see so many views**** - thanks for stopping by and checking this story out! And as promised, a chibi-style outlaw plushie to my reviewers: here ya go! ^_^  
**

**SleepingwithinWater: Somehow Robin always manages to wiggle out of a real apology, doesn't he? Allan's the expert at sleight-of-hand, but Robin uses words just as skillfully (sleight-of-word?).  
**

**DoubleDaggered: Fear not! The next installment is here! :)**

Just a quick note: If I owned the gang, I'd be rewriting the end of Season Two and all of Season Three, not writing fanfiction. Or I'd be doing both, at least. My potted cactus, Tony, and I both thank you for not suing us.  


It was a stupid mistake; embarrassing, really. After all the drilling and practice Robin had put him through in the Holy Lands, for this most basic of combat rules to slip his mind…. Much had foolishly assumed Gisborne was out of the fight, at least for a good minute; he hadn't held back when delivering that terribly unsportsmanlike blow, after all. But the gang had scarcely turned to run when something struck a glancing blow to his ribs, distracting him, allowing his opponent's sword to skim across his knuckles painfully. In the split-second it took him to resume fighting, Gisborne suddenly loomed before him, dagger in one hand, other arm a blur of motion.

Much had blinked and found himself sprawled on the ground, cheekbone radiating hot pain across his face, sword gone, and a circle of blades pointed down at him. Gisborne, tight-lipped, motioned the guards into the castle with a jerk of his head. Before Much could come up with something suitably witty and defiant to say, the guards had hauled him to his feet and half-dragged him back through the empty doorframe. Noticeably winded, Gisborne remained behind, leaning slowly against the wall with a barely-audible groan.

At least Robin and the gang had gotten away, Much reflected numbly as they hustled him along. Nobody hurt, even, which was a miracle in itself, considering their narrow escape. And it shouldn't be more than a few hours, maybe a day, before they'd come barging into the dungeons to break him out. Robin would scold him mercilessly for putting himself at risk, John might clap him on the shoulder, Djaq would smile. True, the rats would be horrid… He'd probably have to stay awake all night just to shoo them off, keep them from chewing little holes in his newly-mended shirt…The cloak and jacket were rags anyway, but he'd only just finished the shirt yesterday.

A parting call from the lieutenant dropped Much's heart down into his toes.

"Not the cells – get him ready for me."

The pace picked up, leaving Much stumbling to keep from being dragged along. He tried to look into his captors' faces, but the helmets and chain mail obscured too much, and he stammered, almost involuntarily, "W-wait, what does he mean, not the cells?" Only his own panting, and the sound of marching feet. "What's he talking about? Where are you taking me?"

He got a metal-gloved rap in the head for his questions. In a bewilderingly short period of time, they arrived at the door leading down into the cells. One of them hauled it open and let his mates jostle Much through, his feet scuffing loudly against the stone in instinctive rebellion. The air was rank and utterly still, coiling thickly into his lungs. Instead of stopping by one of the filthy cells, someplace Much suddenly, desperately wanted to be, they shoved him roughly into an adjoining room he knew only by reputation.

This was bad. Very, very bad.

Much only had time for fleeting impressions before his arms were jerked behind his back and the guards began searching him. Tables stacked with metal tools, instruments. A wooden post in the middle of the room. Chains and hooks fixed to the ceiling. A pervasive, stifling stench, horribly like the battlefields in Acre, but this air was cold, not hot… The faceless, voiceless guard searching him took the moneybag first, unsurprisingly, then his sword belt. Silly, that, as his sword was lying out there in the rain…. They jerked the torn cloak and jacket from his shoulders, but left him his vest and shirt.

Measured, deliberate steps counted out the dungeon stairs, then the paces to the room Much stood in. Face unreadable, Guy of Gisborne stepped into the room and dismissed all the men but two with a gesture.

"Tie him to the post," came the growling order, and Much spent a few useless moments struggling before the burlier guard of the two knocked the wind out of him with a single, well-aimed punch to the gut. By the time he could breathe again, his hands were tied tightly behind him, the post solid and uncomfortable between his shoulderblades.

All right, then – this would definitely be more difficult than a night in the dungeons. Significantly more difficult. Murmured words between Gisborne and the guards echoed gently. Clanking footsteps departed, and a few seconds later, the dungeon door closed with a reverberating rumble. As it faded, the room fell quiet until all Much could hear was his own breathing and the ghostly whisper of the torches.

When he looked up, the man was a black statue by the door, eyes so unfeeling Much tore his gaze away, looking anywhere and everywhere else. He couldn't recognize any of the implements on the tables, recoiled at the mere thought of their purpose. The wine-colored stain on the stone beneath Much's feet was not wine. Surely Gisborne didn't intend to kill him right now, already? If so, there was no rescue coming, nothing else but this room and just a short while left. That knowledge dropped like a rock into the pit of Much's stomach, and he swallowed hard against the fear rising in his throat. Lacing his fingers together hid their shaking. No use letting Gisborne have the satisfaction of knowing how afraid he was. The rest of the gang already believed him half a coward, Much knew. The fact of the matter, though, was that courage came easily enough when his master was in danger, or the gang's safety at stake. When Much was Much's only concern, though…

He heard the uneasy twist of moving leather at the same time Gisborne's heavy boots sounded out, tracing a tantalizingly slow curve around the room. He jumped when Gisborne's voice broke the silence beside him, the man himself a darker shadow in the shadowy room.

"I recognize you now." He paced on out of Much's sight. "You're Locksley's servant, the one he dragged off to the Crusades with him. His right-hand man, such as you are…" An invisible sneer. "His confidant…" Gisborne bit off the "t" as he sauntered back into view, slightly blurred by the swelling beginning around Much's left eye, where Gisborne had hit him earlier.

"You have this one opportunity, and believe you me, I am being far more lenient than you deserve. Speak now, tell me how to find Hood, and I may find my way to sparing your life." He studied his prisoner as he spoke, a bird of prey choosing the best way to strike. Much felt horribly like the trapped and terrified hare the bird had spotted. Still, he couldn't repress a little scoff, barely more than a cough, really; could Gisborne honestly expect one of Robin's men to buckle so easily? Just crumple up and beg for mercy because Gisborne told him to? It was practically an insult.

"That's, uh… That's tempting, that is. Ah, but I'm going to have to say no thanks." Proudly, Much realized his voice had barely wavered, and he summoned a falsely cheerful smile from somewhere. That's what Robin would do: just brush Sir Guy off, strike at his ego. Flash a grin and then make some improbable escape he'd laugh and brag about for weeks.

The silence after his words lasted a few seconds too long, and Much ventured another glance upward. The dark-haired man only shook his head regretfully, tutting as he twitched a sable glove tighter at the wrist. He lifted his own eyes to meet his prisoner's then, and a crooked grin slid onto his face.

"Pity."


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello, all! Here's the next installment, for your reading pleasure. *bows***

DoubleDaggered**: Your review made me laugh, evil-villain-esque though as that may sound. This chapter might not be quiiite what you had in mind, but there is a great deal of glorious angst upcoming, either way! :D**

****SleepingwithinWater**: I think Much is pluckier than he gets credit for in the series. I'm not sure even ****he**** realizes how tough he can be at need. ;)**

**My goal is to give this story the feel of an extra-long (extra-Muchy) episode, complete with scene changes, so for added fun, just imagine that little "arrow flying into target" sound effect at the beginning of each chapter. This chapter's from Robin's point of view (fear not - we'll return to Much soon!).**

**~ Si**

When the outlaws reached the tree line outside Nottingham, Robin sensed more than saw the others split off, scattering to lose any remaining pursuit, but Will stayed at Robin's side. Perhaps Will was wiser than Robin gave him credit for, because every muscle in the archer's body screamed out to turn around and get Much out of Gisborne's hands _now_. Allan threw them a concerned look when Will didn't join him, per their usual partnering system, but darted off down the hill without comment.

Robin followed Will's golden tunic between the trees at a ground-eating lope and tried to settle his mind. Movement helped, gave him somewhere to put the furious, black anger that threatened to obscure his sight. They ran along the flat of the North Road, slithered down slopes of damp leaves, Robin working to keep pace with Will's long legs until they finally jogged to a breathless stop, wordlessly agreeing to continue at a weary walk. By then, his mind was clearer, his frustration blunted against the hard-packed earth, ground down between his boots and the forest floor. He let out a long breath between his teeth, feeling Will's careful eyes on him.

There had been the slightest narrowing of Much's gaze, the almost-wince that was equal parts apology and accepted rebuke, just before he broke out of Gisborne's hold. Yes, he had broken the stalemate, the unsteady standoff that had locked them in place, but Robin was ready to wring his neck when he saw the man next. For all it had worked, Much's bold move had cost him his freedom, and Robin could only guess what it would cost them all before it was finished.

Gisborne would undoubtedly question Much. With one of Robin Hood's men in his hands, a captive that could lead Gisborne straight to the stolen silver and the outlaw's camp together, he would be a fool if he didn't, and this knowledge beat against Robin's mind, threatened to cloud his sight again with anger and fear and the gnawing need to do _something_. Much was a reluctant soldier at best, content with his cooking and looking after Robin. Even in the Holy Land, he'd never faced anything like interrogation or, Heaven forbid, torture. And knowing Gisborne, knowing Much's luck, Heaven would not see fit to forbid it now.

Whether or not Much would break, would give information up didn't matter in the end. They were going to get him out as soon as possible, regardless. But it was something Robin, as their leader, had to consider, though he hated the very thought. The Sheriff would return in a mere day or two, and Gisborne would need the silver already in hand then, or risk Vasey's extreme displeasure. The delight on the lieutenant's face when he had Much pinned, thinking he'd snared the whole bunch of them, and then the rage when he realized he'd lost them…. All that rage was going to be channeled straight at his prisoner now. Everybody has a breaking point, Robin knew all too well, and a few words were all it would take to satisfy Much's tormentors. How long could Much bear up before pain and fear broke his loyal heart?

Robin was saved answering that question by their arrival at the craggy hill that marked the entrance to the cave they currently used as their main camp. The drizzle finally began to dim, becoming a fainter pattering across his hood and shoulders, whispering more quietly in the fallen leaves. Will slowed to match Robin's steady trudge up the slope, and Robin felt a surge of mingled gratitude and guilt toward the younger man. He knew Will had held his tongue, reined in his own questions and worry, to let Robin work things out on the way here. Flickering a wan smile in his companion's direction, Robin drew a breath and stretched out his stride, reaching the cavern's narrow mouth several steps ahead of Will and slipping down the rough-hewn corridor.

The others had already arrived, judging by the animated conversation emanating from the main chamber. Allan's voice was loudest, his habitual sardonic tone even sharper than usual as he said, "…and it's not like he's the best at keepin' his mouth shut, is he?" Robin caught himself mid-step, ears pricking up, and held to the shadows a few moments longer as Allan continued, "Gisborne probably already knows everything about us _and_ what we ate for breakfast, right?" The harsh clack of flint on stone, repeated in angry staccato, chipped a raw edge on Robin's temper. Allan's muttering continued unintelligibly as he worked to start the fire, and Djaq interjected just as Robin considered stepping forward again.

"Your words are selfish, Allan. For all that we know, Much's life could be in danger right now! Gisborne could be-"

"Could be what? Torturin' him? Oh, that's great, then, 'cause it means we've got about five minutes before Gisborne and all his mates show up right here. Blimey, we might as well just-"

A blaze of blood thundering in Robin's ears deafened him to the rest of Allan's words. Two strides forward and the bend of rock revealed John's shaggy face looking up solemnly at Robin's elbow, firelight flaring bright on the taut curves of Djaq's face as she glared across the growing flames at Allan, who froze halfway to his feet, staring at Robin. Still poised there, the lanky man began to stammer something, but Robin couldn't handle hearing another word and snapped, "We might as well _what_, Allan? We might as well just pick up and leave him? Get out while we can? If Much does talk, if Gisborne _tortures_ him and he _breaks_, what then? "

Robin registered dimly that he must look as furious as the fire in his chest felt, because Allan only gaped, eyes flickering over to Djaq and John for help, but Djaq's expression was dark and closed, and John remained silent. Hands coming up in a placating gesture, Allan tried, "Look, Rob…. I didn't mean-"

"No, Allan, just _shut up_. If there's anyone here who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, it's you." He felt Will's quiet presence arrive behind him, a stray breeze brushing his sleeve, and suddenly Robin was stifling in the small cavern. Allan's expressive face was split between accepting and fighting the reprimand, mute for the moment, and without another word, Robin turned on his heel, nearly colliding with the slim carpenter as he strode out into the open air, specks of rain tapping his face, the scent of damp earth rising everywhere. He tipped his head toward the sky, fighting the urge to howl out his frustration until the forest rang with it.

He nearly rounded on the footsteps that approached behind him, but the voice accompanying the presence was Will's.

"He's just worried," Will murmured, hanging back behind Robin's left shoulder; his words reached Robin from a place on the slope almost exactly between the cave entrance and where Robin stood, bridging the space. "He talks like that 'cause he's scared. We all are. But we're gonna get Much out of there."

The young man shrugged his dripping cloak higher on his shoulders and peered out at the rain-soaked trees for several moments before realizing Robin had turned to face him. He blinked in surprise, but continued, "We're going to need information, first thing. Get somebody back into Nottingham, listen around the guards in case Gisborne put Much someplace different. Maybe even…" He looked down and away briefly. "Maybe the Lady Marian could even take a look or ask around. Just to give us an idea, you know, so we're not running in there blind."

Marian. He hadn't even considered… Though more than likely, by the time Robin could reach her, she would have already heard of the situation and have planned some elaborate and dangerous rescue as the Night Watchman. The idea of her running all over heaven and earth as a wanted criminal turned his blood to ice, as always, but in this situation, her investigative ability could be invaluable.

When Robin didn't reply right away, Will stammered quickly, "Sorry – I didn't mean to… That is, if she'd be in danger, of course, we-"

"No, it's all right, Will," Robin said, turning a thoughtful eye on the young man. "It's a good thought, and she may be able to help us. We do need someone on the inside." This gave him a place to start, at least, something to do. He shrugged off his damp cloak and gave Will an encouraging pat on the shoulder as he passed him, entering the cave again. Inside, Djaq, Allan, and Little John were sitting by the fire, Allan looking distinctly surly, and all eyes turned to Robin as he approached.

"I'm going to Knighton Hall," he announced, drawing a range of bewildered and questioning looks. Trading the beggar's cloak for his own dry one, and tossing his bag of silver to Little John, he continued, "Stay here and get some rest, but make sure our weapons are ready; we may have to move quickly to Nottingham when I return."

It hurt with surprising intensity to not hear Much's long-suffering sigh mixed in with Allan's "How's that?" and John's admonishing "Robin…" He jogged off into the trees against the backdrop of their voices, knowing Will would explain why he was running off, and John would get them organized. They would be ready when he returned. Robin prayed he would have good news to bring them.

**Dear readers, I present a challenge: Find something wrong with each chapter. **

**Seriously - this is a chance for all my fellow nitpickers and grammar-lovers to whip out the red pens! Even if a word I used didn't sound quite right, or one of the gang's dialogue seemed off, let me know! I get a ridiculous English-major-style kick out of going back and fixing those things.**

**Telling me the bits you liked would be kind of wonderful too, though, if you're so inclined. :P**


	4. Chapter 4

**Back to a far less pleasant place than Sherwood in this chapter...**

**DoubleDaggered: I was a little put out at first, too, when I realized I'd need to switch viewpoints to tell the story properly. But it's been so much fun getting into the other characters' heads, I'm very glad I ended up doing it this way. Much as we love Much, he can't tell the whole story himself this time. ;)**

**SleepingwithinWater: I'm glad you liked the dialogue there - a scolding Djaq and out-of-line Allan are always fun to write!**

**Without further ado, we return to Much...**

Much came to his senses with the taste of blood in his mouth, metallic and sickening. His thoughts shambled aimlessly in a fog, wandering until he found where sight and memory had last left him. Sir Guy of Gisborne, standing in a doorway… No, closer than that, close enough to see the hate in his eyes... They were pale, his eyes, like all the color had drained out of them. Like you'd snapped an icicle from the edge of a roof and looked at the broken end, and seen Gisborne staring back.

Memory churned harder, set Much's heart thudding faster along with it. There were little silver clasps up the front of Gisborne's tunic, little wolf-head clasps, and matching ones on his gloves. The first punch had carved into Much's jaw, digging a groove there he could still feel, hot and burning.

A door thundered shut nearby, and Much's eyes flew open, only to find that his jaw was clenched so tightly his entire neck ached. For a moment, the muscles seemed paralyzed, and he could not relax them despite all his efforts. After a few agonizing, panicked seconds, something reluctantly released, and Much let out a pathetic whimper of relief, working his jaw gingerly. He could feel blood drying on his chin, sticky and itching, and as the last shreds of fog melted away, every single blow of Gisborne's fists and boots throbbed in unison through his body.

His wrists burned behind him, and the awkward angle reminded him that he was on the floor now, knees pulled up in a desperate attempt to relieve the searing pain in his stomach and sides. The skin around his left eye was a tight and swollen knot of pain, forcing his eye nearly shut. Gisborne had seen the mark, the reddening skin from when he had felled Much outside the castle, and deliberately struck there again, repeating the blow until Much thought his head would burst. Lifting his throbbing head now, scanning the room unsteadily, he saw that he was alone. The room was silent and cold, as if the wavering torches gave no heat at all.

He'd done it. He'd managed it, and the thought almost let him smile, despite his bleak surroundings. Robin would be proud. Even Allan couldn't say anymore that Much couldn't keep his mouth shut. Despite Gisborne's ruthless assault, his relentless demands to know where the silver was hidden, how to find the gang's camp, Much had not spoken a single word, had gritted his teeth and remained mute, apart from the grunts of pain he'd been unable to hold back. A little swell of pride grew in his sore chest, then dimmed when common sense told him it was far too early to celebrate. He was alive: that alone meant Gisborne had further plans for him. As if to prove him right, guards arrived, helmeted and faceless, and to his shame, Much found he could barely keep his feet when they untied him. They dropped him into the first empty cell like a sack of potatoes and locked him in, chuckling to each other.

Much lay where he had fallen for several long minutes, half-curled with his head resting on one outstretched arm. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Wrenching his arms forward to break his fall, after standing with them bound behind his back for hours… Allan would have a number of astoundingly coarse sayings for how badly that hurt, and for once, Much was willing to apply them to his situation.

Dirty straw littered the back wall of the cell, presumably for use as bedding for prisoners. It stunk of decay and unmentionable filth, however, and Much pulled himself over to sit in the front corner of the cell instead, as far away from the nauseating stench and Gisborne's torture chamber as possible. Reluctantly denying his desire to shut his eyes and sleep for days, Much tipped his head back against the stone and took a personal inventory, the chill from the stone immediately sinking through his shirt and vest. It was hard to separate the different aches all making themselves felt at once, but Much tentatively decided that nothing was broken. His wrists were sore, chafed raw from the rope. His whole face hurt, but that was only a black eye and some-odd bruises, all throbbing in time with his heartbeat; after a week or two of brilliant colors and jests from the gang, they would be nearly forgotten. Bruises and scrapes all over, most of them fitting the shape of Gisborne's fist. Only bruises and scrapes, though, however impressive in number and discomfort.

Fine, then. Good. Well, not good, obviously, but certainly nothing Much couldn't handle. In decent shape, considering, and he'd be perfectly willing to ignore his aches and pains if Robin turned up. _When_ he turned up. Together, they would be able to overcome the guards, return to Sherwood together, and all would be well.

Much shifted closer to the bars, and nearly cried out when his ribs flared with pain, reverberating like an echo through all his other injuries. He froze, hardly breathing, rethinking his earlier assessment. Very, very slowly, the burning pain abated, ebbing away in little ripples. He concentrated on taking slow, shallow breaths. Oh, that had truly hurt. Something cracked, maybe; it didn't feel quite as bad as he imagined an actually broken rib would. All right. Not good. In not-so-good-at-all shape, with the promise of more abuse to come, if he stayed here long enough. At least Gisborne would likely wait until tomorrow, since it was so late already… At least, Much thought it was late. It had been just after midday when they entered Nottingham, and it felt like nighttime now. Had he really been in this awful place so long? Gisborne had left him in there and gone away… why had he left? They'd missed supper by now, surely, so that wasn't it. Or was Much wrong, and it was only just now suppertime?

He couldn't think with so much of him crying out for rest and relief. Robin was the master strategist, not him. Much prided himself on his practicality, on keeping things in mind the others were too hasty to consider, but Robin had a gift for seeing five steps ahead, anticipating his opponents' moves. It was all Much could do to keep up with the man some days, physically and intellectually. Right now, he didn't even know if the sun had set, let alone what was going through the mind of Sir Guy of Gisborne.

Gingerly, he rested his head against the cold bars of the cell and shut his eyes. Whatever happened next, he would surely need all the rest he could get. Unless Robin pulled off some daring nighttime rescue, Much knew he'd find himself in that horrible room again, come morning, with Gisborne's pale eyes and merciless smirk boring through him. The gang would come for him, they_ would_, but in the meantime, he needed to be ready, needed to have it straight in his mind that whatever happened – whatever happened to him – he couldn't say a word. Words tumbled out of him like water from a waterfall; one drop, one word followed another, and Much knew that if he let anything, even a whimpered plea for mercy, pass his lips, that would be the end of it.

He was thirsty. The dungeons were cavernously silent, the only sound the industrious dripping of water somewhere. He hadn't thought to bring a water skin on the mission, thinking they'd all be back at camp soon enough. Not that they would have let him keep it, anyway – the guards, that is. Pointless. As if he could escape from a locked cell using a half-full water skin… If for nothing else than to rid himself of the taste of blood, just a cup of water would be lovely. Much's shoulders ached fiercely, but he tucked his cold fingers under his arms anyway, hoping he could manage to sleep in this pit.

"Hurry up, Robin," he murmured, resigning himself to a night spent in this revolting, frightening place. "Please hurry up…"

**Thank you to all who've read this far! And to all you sneaky ninja-like readers out there, I don't bite (unless you're a sandwich) - jot down a quick little review, and let me know what you think! :P**

**~ Si**


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter's a little later than I wanted to post it, but the revision fairies wouldn't cooperate with me today. So I submit to you this chapter (finally!), sleep-deprived but triumphant. :P**

**DoubleDaggered: I'm so glad you're enjoying this tale! I agree - Much could do with a hug right now, and I feel kind of rotten for being the cause of his misery. But the writer Kurt Vonnegut has a good quote on the subject: "Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them - in order that the reader may see what they are made of."**

**SleepingwithinWater: That's a good point about Much's vest. I can't remember exactly why I left him with it, except that I didn't want the first thing that happened in the dungeons to be Much losing his shirt and vest. That seems to happen so often with leading characters in episodes and fics that I kind of went the other way with it. But for the purposes of the story, we'll say it's because Gisborne knew another layer of cloth wouldn't make that much of a difference, unfortunately... *wince***

**Without further ado, the next chapter...**

**~Si**

At first, hearing the soft tapping against her window frame, Marian considered simply pushing Robin and his insufferable smile right off the roof. It was late, she was already in her nightdress – no doubt something he was counting on – and after such a wearisome day, Marian was in no mood to deal with Robin's banter. The tapping came again, and she set her brush aside with a resigned sigh of frustration. Wrapping her robe tightly around herself, she tried to resist the urge to indulge such petty thoughts; after all, angry as she still was with Robin of Locksley for abandoning her for the glory of the Crusades, some little part of her still stubbornly loved the madman. Perhaps she would only slam the shutters in his face and hope he fell off the roof of his own accord.

Then Marian opened the shutters to see his face drawn tight with a hurt his eyes couldn't conceal, his smirk absent as if it had never existed, and she couldn't find the heart to shut Robin out. He swung through the window with his usual grace, boots almost silent on the floorboards, but he made no playful remark about her state of dress or the hour. Instead he threw back his hood and scrubbed a hand down his face wearily, leaning against the window frame. His familiar figure seemed somehow diminished, a dimmed candle; instead of the people's acclaimed hero, he looked like any other man, tired and worried and kept from sleep by the thought of his trouble.

"Robin… What is it? What's wrong?" she ventured. This visit was over something far graver than wheedling a kiss out of her. The solid jut of his jaw and his silence told her that plainly enough. Lately it seemed as if Robin only turned up when he wanted something from her, as often to tease and ask for a lock of her hair as to ask for information from the castle. She had to admit, it was usually something his men or the shire's people honestly needed, but Robin was too fond of their banter to simply ask for anything, and she had braced herself for a new bout of wordplay.

Yet the man before her didn't meet her eyes, barely moved, the words lost somewhere in his throat. Finally, when real fear had begun to worm its way into Marian's stomach, Robin growled, "It's Gisborne. He-" Disappointment ground the fear to ashes, and Marian groaned in exasperation, turning on her heel toward her wardrobe with no real purpose other than to get away from Robin and his jealousy. Before she'd taken more than a step, however, Robin said, "No, Marian, you don't understand. Please, just…" Warily, she turned back to face him, and he stepped forward, pain roughening his voice, dragging his shoulders down, "He's got Much, Marian. He caught Much this morning, and…"

For a moment, even Robin's voice faded. Marian could not move, could hardly breath, could only try to accept what she had just heard. Before Robin had spoken, she'd imagined a dozen possible dangers and problems, but never one of Robin's gang taken. How had she not heard? She'd been in town this very morning….

"We raided the Sheriff's coffers today, but somehow Gisborne and his men caught wind of it," Robin was saying. "He'd expected us somehow, I don't know how. We got out, but Much stayed behind to cover our retreat, and…" He shook his head, letting out a helpless sigh, and looked up finally, the moonlight turning his hazel eyes pale and desperate. "I need your help, Marian, to get him out. Gisborne will do anything to get that silver back before the Sheriff returns and finds out. Much has been down there for hours already… I don't know how much time we have."

Mind reeling, Marian crossed to sink onto the edge of her bed, resting her hand on the quilt beside her in a wordless invitation. The mattress rustled softly as he sat slowly, achingly, his shoulder brushing hers. The thought of Much waiting in Guy's unforgiving control sank worry deep into her stomach even as it set her thoughts racing to compose a plan.

"I will go to Nottingham tomorrow morning on some pretense. Guy will no doubt be eager for a chance to boast, and I'll see what I can find out." She half-expected Robin to protest such a bold tactic, and was both surprised and concerned when he only nodded, lacing his calloused fingers with hers. This, more than anything, told her the depth of his distress, and she added, "We'll think of something. Surely…" His tousled head swung her way, candlelight casting the desperate lines of his features into sharp relief, and she trailed off, unsure what platitude she had been about to offer, then amended, "Much is the most loyal man I know, and believes in you. He knows if there is any way to do it, you will free him." Her words only seemed to drive the blade deeper, however, Robin's frustrated exhalation drawing his shoulders tighter, his hand tensing in hers.

"I shouldn't have let this happen in the first place. We could have stayed, fought." His voice was hoarse in the shadows beside her. "We had the whole gang there. None of us should have been left behind." Self-recrimination dragged at his words, deepened them from the tones of a young man's frustration to the guilt of a soldier who felt he'd failed his companions.

"Robin…"

"We could have done it!" he snapped, drawing a hiss for silence from Marian. Her father would have fits if he found Robin in her room at this hour, especially sitting on her bed with scarcely an inch between them. "A leader is supposed to keep his men safe, Marian. I should've…" A heavy silence welled up and grew between them, and for the first time since Robin's return to England, Marian caught a glimpse of the Crusader who'd returned in place of young Master Robin of Locksley. He'd always been prone to dark moods as well as his merry, exuberant light ones, a man of passion whichever way his humors took him, but there was a new heaviness in this, an extra weight across the span of his shoulders like a cloak he couldn't shrug off. This Robin understood consequences, however often he chose to throw them to the wind, and knew all too well what bleak fate lay in store for Much if they could not thwart the Sheriff's men once more.

Then Robin shook his head and stood, shoving his hand through his hair as he crossed to the window, steps careful and light on the creaking boards. "The lads are waiting for me. We can meet you along the North Road tomorrow." Marian followed him to the window, hugging her robe close as the evening breeze picked up for a moment. Robin clambered nimbly over the sill, then turned around suddenly to press a kiss to her forehead and whisper, "Thank you," before slipping away. The warmth of his fingers lingered on her cheek, despite the cool night air. She watched him lope across the moonlit grass into the forest before fastening the shutters and returning to sit on her bed, heart and mind in a tumult.

With the Sheriff away on business, Guy had control of all his matters, including the final say on punishment for criminals. Ordinarily, Marian knew, this would result in unceremonious hanging for any outlaw, a welcome chance to exercise the power he craved, but thankfully, Robin and his men had gotten away with a significant amount of money. Guy was doubly motivated to retrieve the silver as quickly as possible, both to regain the money itself and also to have the situation well in hand when the Sheriff returned – for these, he would need Much alive. Much was the only one who could lead them to the outlaw camp and the silver, not that the loyal manservant would speak a word toward Robin's harm.

In that loyalty, Marian considered as she snuffed the candle and pulled the worn quilt to her chin, lay the greatest danger to Much. For if Sir Guy found his prisoner could not or would not help him gain back the silver, Much would hang; she half-prayed Much would let something slip, just something small, something to keep Guy content until she and Robin could work out a plan. Much had already been in the dungeons for nearly a day... Given Guy's intense need to rectify this situation before the Sheriff returned, Much may as well have been there for a week. They needed more time, and urgently.

**Reviews make me dance for joy, and occasionally sing a Broadway show tune out of sheer delight. :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**It's a dark and stormy evening over here, so I'm posting this chapter to the low sound of thunder... The ominous undertones are warranted, unfortunately: life's not treating Much well lately.**

**SleepingwithinWater: Marian annoyed me at first, but she's started to grow on me since then. My favorite moments with her and Robin are the quiet, honest ones, without all the "Oh, grow up!" and "No, YOU grow up!" banter. And we'll return to the gang in a chapter or two, I promise!**

**DoubleDaggered: The first season is "the good old days" for me - none of this nonsense about traitors and breaking fans' hearts and whatnot. Plus it's fun to write the gang as they settle in and get used to each other. ;)**

**~Si**

* * *

Much's eyes snapped open, the back of his head cracking sharply against the stone as he startled awake. Heart racing, he strained his eyes and ears through the darkness for whatever had woken him. The dungeons were forever in an uneasy sort of twilight, and Much couldn't tell if he'd slept for hours or merely blinked. When the heavy footsteps resumed, Much jolted forward to stand up, and yelped when the movement wrenched at abused muscles, rippling through his shoulders and down his back like knotted rope set afire. Panting, feeling desperately vulnerable, Much wrapped an arm around his stomach and gritted his teeth, working his way up the wall; he would at least face his captors on his feet. He blinked a constellation of black specks from his vision just as Gisborne and a pair of his ever-present guards strode into sight.

"I hope you've slept well," the black-clad lieutenant drawled, his eyes traveling up and down Much as if inspecting a beast he might buy at market. "I can see you've given our last conversation some thought." Much avoided Gisborne's eyes, well aware of how lurid his bruises must be by now, how filthy his clothes were already becoming. The Master-at-Arms raised a mocking eyebrow that took in Much's defensive stance, the arm he held carefully crooked against his stomach, and Much said nothing, clenching his jaw deliberately. "And apparently, it has not loosened your tongue." The lieutenant sighed, perplexity crossing his face, and gestured to the guards. They entered the cell and hauled Much out to stand before Gisborne, who folded his arms, scrutinizing his prisoner anew with a thin sneer pulling at his face. For an instant, Much could imagine how Gisborne must see him: too slow or too stupid to avoid capture, easily caught and easily broken.

As the cold gaze scanned him, the guards' gloved hands digging into his arms, it dawned on Much that Gisborne had never expected him, the mere servant of a thieving outlaw, to bear up this long. Yesterday, Gisborne had not used any of the many instruments in the room, had not chosen any more complicated methods of torture beyond beating him soundly. There was no denying that had hurt, and badly, but if Gisborne thought that would be enough to make Much bawl out everything he knew about the gang and Robin, he was sorely mistaken. In Gisborne's hands, Much knew the tiniest piece of information about the gang would become a dagger plunged straight into Robin's heart. Therefore, it was Much's job to make sure Gisborne didn't gain one scrap of information from him, not one syllable, whatever the personal cost might be. In the Holy Land, he'd knocked back blades seeking Robin's blood, exhausted himself fighting his master's fever – this was small in comparison. Just a handful of hours, he told himself sternly, a little pain, and then Robin and the lads would arrive and he'd be free again. He could manage this, for Robin's sake. He would.

A queer expression crossed Gisborne's face, returned, and stayed. After a moment, Much realized he actually looked sympathetic, or at least regretful. The expression was utterly out of place on the man, whose features Much had always seen twisted into hatred, anger, or alarm. Trying not to show just how unnerved this change made him feel, Much did his best to meet the hooded eyes defiantly.

"I do understand your position, of course. You're Hood's servant: you feel indebted to him. Let me assure you, this loyalty is utterly misplaced." The flickers of false sympathy faded back to stony indifference, and Much allowed himself to relax just a bit. Gisborne continued, "Now, the Sheriff returns in a few days, and your outlaw master has run off with taxes that rightfully belong to the Sheriff of these lands. He's abandoned you here, the worse for wear, to take the blame and punishment for it all. Is that the act of a man worth your loyalty?" Much bit his tongue against the urge to remind Gisborne whose fault it was that he was 'the worse for wear', and ducked his head to fix his eyes on his own boots, firming his mouth into silence again. His muscles cried out at the change of posture, though, and he shuffled a little to regain his balance without the use of his pinned arms, the guards providing no help at all. Unfortunately, Gisborne seemed to mistake Much's uneasy shifting as signs of a conflicted heart, and he leaned closer, blotting out the light of the torches.

"Just a word or two, and you're free of this dangerous game. Tell me where he is, how to find him, and I'll make sure the Sheriff knows of your assistance." His voice was low and soothing, inviting. Much had heard similar honeyed tones from traders in the Holy Land, luring customers in with intimate smiles and glowing words. In his first days there, as they passed through a town, Much had nearly spent all his humble savings on a tiny reliquary containing a finger bone from Saint Catherine, patroness of millers; in the nick of time, Robin had caught sight of Much through the crowd and pulled him aside. Just as the promise of a holy relic turned out to be nothing more than the same choking dust under his feet, Much knew better than to put any faith in the assurances flowing from this peddler's mouth.

Before he knew what he was doing, Much was shaking his head, first minutely, then harder, despite the angry throbbing it set off in his skull, in the side of his face. The looming presence faltered, then took a step back, Gisborne's dark head tilting ever so gently to one side.

"Oh?" came the whispered query, a serpentine warning that brushed cool scales around Much's neck and warned him to choose his words very carefully. Much knew there would be pain for this, and it would be dreadful. His insides turned to ice at the very thought. In fact, Gisborne might decide Much was no more use at all, and these would be the last words Much would ever utter.

Past his pounding heart, which had somehow lodged in his throat, Much said, "I won't do it. I won't." The guards turned him roughly toward the side room, anticipating the lieutenant's signal, and Much planted his feet, raising his voice. "You can't make me betray him. I've got no family, like Roy, nobody you can threaten or- or torture. Me. That's all you've got, is me." He trailed off, trembling from the effort of resisting the guards. When Gisborne spoke again, the bladed edge to his voice set Much's hands shaking again, and even clenching his fists couldn't stop the tremors.

"Oh, I _can_ make you betray him. And I'm prepared to take my time doing it." A sharp gesture by Gisborne was all the warning he got before a guard's fist hammered into his aching stomach; Much doubled over in agony, unable to breathe, unable to be sick, unable to do anything but stumble blindly as the guards hauled him over the threshold, Gisborne's inexorable stride counting out the seconds as he was forced to his knees and stripped of his vest, left only with his trousers and shirt. His boots followed, leaving him shivering in the damp air; heavy shackles bit down on his wrists, shocking a gasp from him. Fingers knotted in his hair, wrenched his head back and trebled the throbbing in his skull, and Gisborne was above him purring, "Let's start with a little refresher first, shall we?"

* * *

A/N: I have this story nearly complete on my computer, but the last handful of chapters are still somewhat up in the air. If there's a moment between characters or any sort of scene you'd like to see in this tale before it ends, let me know, and I'll see what I can do. Thanks for reading! ~ Si


	7. Chapter 7

**A slightly longer chapter for you all this time! The length may start to vary more as we go on; it depends on how long my mental camera crew wants to spend with each scene. **

**SleepingwithinWater: Ack - I didn't mean to frighten you into all-caps! XD I just meant that I have this story almost entirely written out, but we're not even to the halfway mark yet, folks. Technically, there's an end in sight, but not for a good while yet! A nice moment between Allan and Much... hmm. I'll see what the gang will cooperate with. ;)**

**DoubleDaggered: Writing for Gisborne's kind of making me hate the guy, too... Yes, his life's been rough, and he has terrible taste in father-figures, but ****still****. It's kind of awful trying to see Much from his point of view; his mind's not a happy place. O_o**

**purple6psyche: Welcome to the fandom! :D I'm glad everybody seems in character - it's hard to tell sometimes after rereading and rewriting so often! And Much just IS rather whumpable... Plus this gives him some well-deserved attention from the gang. I'm sure he'll thank me later. Maybe. :/**

**Happy reading, and a lovely weekend to you all!**

**~Si**

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Marian spent a few extra minutes that morning smoothing her hair and selecting her dress. She chose a rose-colored gown, feminine and flattering, one she knew Guy liked to see her wear. If she had to charm her way into conversation with the man, particularly to eke information from him, she would need all the advantage she could get. She brushed her hair until the dark waves shone, then hurried downstairs.

By the time she arrived in Nottingham under an overcast sky, the market was in full bustle, everyone coming out to make the purchases rain had deterred them from yesterday. Marian nodded pleasantly to the gate guards, stopped to speak with a shop-owner here and there, and generally tried her best not to look desperate to enter the castle. As Robin had said last night, there was very little time to spare, and guilt gnawed at her heart for making small talk and running her fingers through fabrics while Much was left to Gisborne's mercy, but it would not do for anyone to be able to say they had seen her rush into the castle, looking anxious and alarmed.

Finally, she wound her way from the market into the castle itself, a length of cream silk over her arm, ostensibly material for a shawl she wished to embroider. That would give her an excuse for being in Nottingham when she met Guy, all the reason he would require. He had a straightforward mind, direct and forceful; if his exasperated sighs were anything to go on, he found Marian flighty and capricious, and her tale of wishing to shop for silks would satisfy him easily.

Last night, Robin had passed over his usual admonitions to be careful, to stay out of danger, but Marian felt them hovering by her ears nonetheless. Her plan to engage Sir Guy was simple but risky, and would take some clever work to avoid making her look suspicious. If the matter of the silver was as urgent as Marian believed, Guy would waste no time extracting an answer from his prisoner. She would find the lieutenant in the dungeons, almost certainly, and hopefully she could learn enough there to help Robin form a plan. The only problem would be how to disengage from Sir Guy afterward, but that was a smaller matter she was accustomed to navigating by now.

She slowed her steps as she approached the dungeon door, and spread a sweet smile across her face for the two guards standing outside.

"Is Sir Guy within?" she inquired, smoothing the fabric of the shawl.

"He is, my lady, but he is not to be disturbed." Faintly, from behind the door, Marian heard raised voices, one certainly Guy's distinctive, commanding snarl. It took all her willpower not to flinch back at the ragged cry, a different voice, which shuddered along the stone into barely-audible sobs. Her heart thudded in her chest, and she tipped her head imploringly at the guard who had spoken, pretending she had heard nothing.

"I should like to surprise him…. He promised I could speak with him on a personal matter. It will only take a few moments."

As she spoke, she took a step closer and wound her fingers around the wrought-iron ring in the door. The guard hesitated, looking past her at his companion, who was equally uncertain. Marian flashed them a smile and tugged the heavy panel open, slipping through before they could find their voices.

Inside, down the steps, a wave of odor and clammy air nearly brought her up short. She had been in the dungeons only rarely, hating the place for all it represented and caused. The jailer, a detestable man, made no attempt to clean the cells or keep them suitable for human occupancy, and now the stench of offal, all the products of terror and sickness, made her press the silk fabric tightly against her nose and mouth.

On her left, at the end of the corridor of cells, was an open doorway, torch-lit like the rest of the dungeon, and it was that room which was the source of the terrible voices she had heard. All she could hear now was the scuff of someone's boots, and a faint gasp now and then. Keeping the soft silk against her face, Marian strode forward quickly; though she wished for a moment to steel herself, the guards could regain their nerve at any time, and then she would lose her chance.

Inside, the Master-at-Arms stood with his back to her, dark head angled down to study the figure at his feet. Much knelt there, his face screwed up in agony, cradling his shackled hands close to his chest and breathing in jagged gasps. His faded cap was gone, his brown hair nearly hiding his face as he rocked gently; he wore only his linen shirt and trousers, feet bare against the shadowed floor.

"Tell me how to find Hood, or we'll do another finger," Guy said patiently after a moment, a reasonable man offering charitable alternatives. Much's head jerked up, his breath catching, to reveal purpling bruises that shadowed his jaw and one of his reddened eyes. Marian could never learn to comprehend this side of Gisborne, the casual way he could torture a man for hours, manipulating and calculating how to break him, and his better qualities would never eclipse this black aspect of his nature, despite Robin's fears. Her heart sank when Much clenched his jaw, eyes shut tightly again, and slowly shook his head, the movement tipping him to one side.

"Your choice," Guy growled, and jerked Much's arm up savagely, chains clinking, to hold the injured limb at his prisoner's eye level. Much let out a strangled sob, and Marian quickly uttered a short shriek, muffled by the shawl.

Gisborne rounded on her, gloved hand at his sword-hilt before he had finished the turn, but the battle-ready tension melted when his eyes fell upon Marian cowering in the open doorway. For a moment he gaped at her, his two selves colliding at the sight of Marian in this place. After a furious glance at Much, whose convulsive breaths were suddenly the only sound in the dungeons, the gentleman in Gisborne won out, as Marian had been praying it would.

"Lady Marian…" He strode swiftly toward her, moving to block her sight of the outlaw with his body. "You should not be down here. These are not fit sights for a lady's eyes." He caught her arm, drawing her along with him toward the dungeon doors. She required little acting to lean into his support, feigning a noblewoman's horror at such a shock. The knowledge that the hands supporting her had inflicted Much's wounds Marian forced to the back of her mind; this was the most critical part of her plan, and she could not risk distractions.

Guy pounded on the heavy doors, which swung open immediately. The rush of fresh air was an immense relief, and Marian shut her eyes to breathe it in, sensing Guy tense beside her. He slipped an arm around her waist, holding her upright, and snapped at the guards, "I told you I was not to be disturbed! If the Lady Marian suffers any ill effects from your negligence, I shall see to your punishment myself. Find some men to keep watch on the prisoner until I return." In a far gentler voice, he continued, "Marian, I will escort you to your rooms and summon a physician..." Without waiting for her assent, Guy set off down the corridor, keeping her close at his side.

Marian bided her time, waiting for a degree of tension to fall away from the strong arm encircling her. She only had until they reached the rooms reserved for her here, and she needed as much information as possible. Sir Guy was already flicking his eyes down at her, his face grave; probably he was concerned that she had not protested, and attributed it to serious upset on her part. She let out a small sigh, casting her eyes at the stones at their feet, taking care to let her voice waver just the slightest bit.

"Marian?" Good. He was worried in earnest now. "I am sorry you witnessed that… It must have been upsetting."

"Yes…" she murmured, eyes downcast still. "That poor man." The slightest exhalation from the Master-at-Arms, a stifled sigh at her indiscriminate sympathy.

"You need not feel too badly for him, my lady. He is an outlaw, one of Robin Hood's number. He is fortunate he lives at all." They turned a corner and walked on, Gisborne matching his pace to her deliberately slow steps. "You, ah… You may have heard that Hood and his men attempted to steal the Sheriff's silver yesterday afternoon. They succeeded in part only – I captured that one, Hood's personal servant. He will lead me to the money. It is only a matter of time."

Only because Marian was listening carefully did she hear the layer of false confidence Guy applied to his last words. So Much had not given up any information, at least not yet. Suppressing the small smile that knowledge prompted, she said, "Do you not fear Robin Hood will attempt a rescue? He has done so before, I have heard."

"He may," Gisborne admitted. "But it will do him little good to liberate a dead man." The dark edge to his voice brought Marian's eyes sweeping up to his face in horror.

"You will have him executed?"

"He is a traitor to his country, Marian, by defying the law as he and his master have done," Guy explained patiently. "He has refused all opportunities to mitigate the sentence by giving me the information I require. Perhaps he hopes the Sheriff will restore his precious Bonchurch to him, reinstate his seat in the council of nobles." A scoff. They were only a corridor or two away from the guest rooms now. Marian heaved a sigh, turning her fear into a sound of weariness.

"It's a pity matters cannot be simpler, like trades at the market. Hood has the silver, and you have his man. Perhaps an exchange…?" Guy's aquiline features twisted into a sneer at her words.

"Bargain with outlaws? Hardly, my lady. And I would not have Hood so nearly within my grasp only to let him walk away."

"You would not be the man I know if you did," Marian replied lightly, stopping with him at her door. "And certainly the Sheriff will find a way to retrieve the money when he returns." She pretended not to see how her words tightened his lips and sparked black anger in his eyes, instead offering a demure smile. "Thank you, Sir Guy. And please do not trouble yourself to call anyone. I feel better already, though I think I shall lie down for a while." Reluctantly, Guy released her waist, taking her hand instead to brush it with his lips.

"My lady." He gave a courteous bow and retreated slowly down the hall, but not before Marian had caught the flicker of repressed frustration rippling across his face. Shutting the door, she dropped the silk onto a nearby chest and sagged into the chair at the empty writing desk to think. Her parting needle about the Sheriff had hit its mark, she was certain. Gisborne would do everything in his power to resolve the situation before Vasey returned, even a simple exchange, man for money. Not that he could be trusted to let Robin and his men walk away unscathed, but at least Guy would need Much alive for the exchange, which she was fairly confident he would propose to Robin. Her simpering act had accomplished that, at least, though that felt little enough when she remembered the desperation in Much's blue gaze.


	8. Chapter 8

**Whew! It's been quite a week over here... Thank goodness for weekends, those marvelous things. *collapse***

**Samu: Thanks so much for your review! I've always felt Much was made of sterner stuff than we got to see in the series; it's like the camera has a grudge against him or something, though, and we only get to see him when he's flustered or making a fool of himself. We just get these little hints instead... gah.**

**DoubleDaggered: I'm glad you liked that little moment with Guy - you can see that switch happen in a few episodes, this little hesitation when he turns toward Marian, changing gears from merciless Master-at-Arms to just Guy.**

**LadyKate1: Thank you for the lovely review and PM! I've unfortunately put Guy in a position where we won't be seeing much of his better side this time around - he's under a lot of pressure just now. ;) I might do something about him in the future, though, since I'm endlessly fascinated by his psychology and motivations - he's a complicated man, despite what Marian said/thought in the last chapter.**

**SleepingwithinWater: We get back to the rest of the gang in this chapter, per your earlier request! :)**

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Djaq wrapped her fingers firmly around the branch above her and cautiously stood to her full height, mindful of the movement the wind coaxed from the larger limb under her boots. Little John stood at the base of a tree nearby, also watching the North Road for Marian's arrival, but his dark eyes strayed up to her perch frequently. The road was still clear in both directions, so she sank into a crouch against the wide trunk again and felt the man's gaze ease, focused once more on the road. According to the others, John had been the original leader of this group, surrendering the role without ill will when Robin arrived. It was clear, however, that John had retained a leader's protective nature, and Djaq had to smile at the thought of the cagey expression on the huge man's face when she told Robin she would watch from the highest position this time. She had finally begun to feel a sense of belonging with this "gang", as Robin called their group. Now if only she could get these incorrigible Englishmen to stop worrying over her safety, as if she were a helpless kitten.

Across the road, a dark flicker in the underbrush told her Will Scarlett was alert and scanning the forest as well. Robin had stationed them as if preparing an ambush, two to a side, Robin making a third on Will and Allan's side of the road. Even with this Lady Marian of his, Robin was taking no chances, and had given them their orders an hour earlier without smile or jest. The past twenty-four hours had drawn them all tight as bowstrings, each member weathering the worry and stress in their own way. Robin had poured the dark hurting anger in his eyes into restless activity, pacing around the camp until he finally picked up his bow and stalked out. When he'd returned hours later with a young buck, Will had volunteered for the time-consuming chore of cleaning and dressing the meat, which had puzzled Djaq until she saw his nimble fingers set to work, the familiar actions smoothing a few of the deeper lines from his young face. He'd called Allan over to help, which the other man had done with ill grace, trailing complaints. His knife had gone dull, it would be hours yet before they could eat, you didn't see anybody else coming to help… Djaq had rolled her eyes at the litany of petulant, irritating comments, pushed them to the background of her mind, until she saw Will's keen eyes flick up to Allan's face just once, the brief flicker of sympathy there surprising her. She had realized the lanky man's ill humor, his childish annoyance at such tiny things were a way to keep out the much greater complaints echoed in her own heart: _Our friend has been taken from us. We don't know if he is all right. We don't know how to free him. We don't know what Lady Marian will tell us. We don't know, we don't know… _

As she watched the two men at their grisly work, Little John had roused from his brooding and called over for Allan to keep to his work with less noise, a jab the younger man had lifted his head to almost eagerly, retorting that the bigger man could come and take his place if he felt like giving orders. The banter had continued from there, all the men keeping their words just this side of outright argument, until Robin had finally stood and said, "Let's go". And Djaq herself watched her companions, forcing her thoughts outward instead of inward, where her concern and imagination could take hold.

The staccato beat of a rider on horseback broke the forest's silence, and she threw a quick look through the interlaced branches across the road. Allan, only visible over the slope thanks to her lofty position, stood with an arrow fit to his bow, ready to be drawn. Below, John's shaggy head tipped up at her, a nod informing her that he was ready as well. If his men were ready, Robin certainly was, so Djaq scrambled down the tree, dropping lightly to the leaves just as the rider came into view.

A dark-haired woman in a dress the color of roses slowed her mare at the sound of a sharp whistle, and Robin strode out of hiding to meet her on the road, a new ease in his posture stating plainly that this was his Lady Marian. John was already paces ahead, and Djaq jogged to catch up, arriving on the level surface of the road at the same time as Will and Allan. The lanky thief took the mare's reins at once, a courtesy Djaq hadn't expected from the often-coarse outlaw, leaving Robin free to offer his hand to the young woman astride the grey mare.

The welcoming smile on Robin's face dimmed slightly as Marian accepted his hand and dismounted. Her brows were furrowed, and her lips pressed tightly together as she took several long seconds to brush invisible dust from her skirts. This hesitation was not good. It meant something the dark-haired noblewoman did not want to say, or thought they would not wish to hear, and Djaq's heart clenched with worry even as she schooled her features into peace.

To her surprise, soft-spoken Will Scarlett spoke out first.

"Have you seen Much?" When the others glanced his way, he simply kept his attention on Marian, who replied carefully, "I have seen him. Guy is keeping him in the dungeons until he decides how best to turn this situation to his advantage."

"How is he?" Djaq piped up beside Will.

"Gisborne say anything, what he's planning?" Allan asked at the same time. Robin, who had just opened his mouth himself, stilled them all with a raised hand. Allan, holding the mare's bridle behind Marian and Robin, winced ever so slightly as Robin turned an intense gaze upon Marian, his expression asking all the gang's questions and more. Djaq supposed the other man had been on the receiving end of that look often enough to sympathize: Robin appeared to be trying to siphon all the information from the woman through sheer willpower. Marian drew a breath and looked across to meet Djaq's eyes first, her gaze refreshingly free of the typical English wariness at speaking to a Saracen.

"I know little enough of medicine and healing, but… Much was not well, when I saw him. I met Guy in the dungeons, as he was questioning Much-" Flickers of dismay ran through the small ring of faces and Robin shut his eyes for a brief moment. "His methods are familiar to you all, and his cruelty. I hope, though, that Much gained some respite, since I convinced Guy that I was in need of an escort to my rooms." Her faint smile twisted wryly, her blue eyes tight. "He is confident that his men will foil any attempt at rescue. I saw only the regular complement of guards, and none inside the dungeons."

Much was still alive, then – an enormous relief from a fear Djaq had barely let herself acknowledge. He was hurt, though, injured badly enough that pain still echoed from Marian's eyes. While Djaq did not doubt that they would manage to free Much, armed with whatever information Marian could supply, he would only worsen under the attentions of the Sheriff's lieutenant in the meantime. Robin was clever and innovative, and Djaq had witnessed his improbable plans succeed often enough to trust that he would see Much free of the dungeons at the least. But that would be the simple part, in comparison. The difficulty would lie in how badly wounded Much was when they reached him, and how quickly they could return to Sherwood, where she could see to his injuries properly. As a healer, she had to consider the chance, looming and foreboding, that Much would not be fit to travel. To stay would mean death at Gisborne's hand, but to flee for the safety of the forest could mean the same fate, brought on by efforts too demanding for his condition.

She returned from her dark musings to hear Marian continue, "I may have an opening for you, but how to use it is up to you." She took the solemn faces in with a look as she spoke, encompassing them all in her words. "As I said, Guy is desperate, and I believe he will make you an offer, Robin: the Sheriff's silver in exchange for your man. He will say that is the bargain, of course, but-"

"But he's not going to hold up his end," Robin finished, smirking mirthlessly.

"I am sure he hopes to present the Sheriff with the silver and all of Robin Hood's men in chains. Such a coup would secure his position in Nottingham forever. It would also require him to leave the city to make the exchange, which is your window of opportunity," Marian said. Robin nodded slowly, turning to face his men thoughtfully.

A quarter of an hour later, they'd put together half a plan while Marian listened intently. One group – Little John, Allan, and Djaq –would meet Gisborne for the exchange and stall the negotiations as long as possible, giving the second, smaller group – Robin and Will – time to find a way into the dungeons and get Much out. They spent long minutes debating the wisdom of Robin going to Nottingham, Allan pointing out reasonably that Gisborne would expect to see Robin Hood at the exchange. Their leader would hear no argument, however, his features closing off like shut gates at the suggestion, and Djaq would have called his behavior childish but for the hard spark glinting in his eyes like fire on glass. Just as John shifted his stance, about to intervene, Allan threw up his hands in defeat, snapping, "Fine! All right. Just don't blame us if Gisborne comes charging back into Nottingham before it suits you!"

On that unsettled note, the discussion ended, and they bade the Lady Marian goodbye. Her cheeks reddened prettily when they all thanked her earnestly, and the gang lingered in the path a few minutes longer than usual as she rode off, each member lost in thought. If Robin was right, Gisborne would announce the exchange in the morning, setting the time for that same afternoon or evening, enough time for him to get his men and plans in order. That meant they, too, had less than a day to prepare, with only a guess at what they were preparing for.

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**See that little box down there? Every time you leave a note for me in there, I lapse into uncontrollable grinning and bounciness. My mood is changed for the rest of the day. It's the closest thing to mind-control you're gonna find (this week, at least). :P**


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you all so much for reading (and reviewing) despite the classes and homework I know most of you are dealing with right now! Just a quick note: While reading other fics, I've realized that my chapters are rather short, comparatively – if that's been irking any of you, the next several chapters are significantly longer (and seem to get longer every time I revise!). Also some behind-the-scenes trivia: This chapter is the scene from my original one-shot that refused to remain a one-shot; after I drafted it, I realized I couldn't handle not knowing how Much ended up like this, and couldn't leave him like this, either… :(**

**DoubleDaggered: Djaq's such an interesting character to write for – she has an entirely different background and point of view from the rest of the gang, which made finding her "voice" a little more difficult than usual. Since each character will narrate at least one chapter, I've had to get out of my comfort zone and figure out what makes the rest of the gang tick! ;)**

**SleepingwithinWater: I couldn't tell whether I'd made Robin's reactions too subtle, at first, but since you picked up on them I feel much better. XD Yep, Gisborne's got a world of pain and suffering coming if Robin gets his hands on him… **

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Much tried. He honestly did. But there simply was no good bit to any of this.

His shackles clinked coldly when he shifted against the wall, shards of sound scattering along the walls. The movement jostled his right hand, dragging a miserable groan from behind his clenched teeth. His fingers were undoubtedly, horribly broken… two of them, maybe more... He couldn't remember how many, didn't want to, and the sight of his distorted and swollen right hand only sent the nauseating pain soaring higher. The slightest motion, even breathing, made it worse, and Much had given up long hours ago on trying to stop the pain. He'd be content – happy, even, happy enough to sleep – if the pain would just dull a little, let his stomach settle. Between his hand, his pounding head, and the bone-deep ache composed of every vicious blow Gisborne had dealt him, Much could hardly remember what it felt like to _not_ hurt.

Hunger pulsed underneath the nausea like a wound in his pit of his stomach, but it felt so much like all the other bruises Much was almost able to ignore it. The thirst was worse, but swallowing anything and keeping it down was a feat Much didn't think he could manage just now. Most of his last shreds of energy were focused on not shivering in the dank air, a reaction that jarred every one of his aching muscles and bones.

A few hours ago, after Marian had appeared in the doorway of that awful place like an angel and Gisborne had left with her, Much had been able to compose himself, just barely. Bless her, a thousand times over, for those precious minutes of reprieve. He'd found a few fleeting minutes of peace, most of them spent catching his breath through shudders of pain, trying to ignore the scornful gaze of the guard and to think of Robin, how he had to stay safe, how maybe Marian had come to distract Gisborne long enough for Robin and the gang to burst in and stage a rescue.

But rescue hadn't come. Instead, Gisborne had returned. He had stalked in, fury rippling from him like shimmers of heat, and flung Much against the stained stone with a ferocious blow that left his head ringing, throbbing. Two long steps, then Gisborne's boot smashed into Much's side and something gave way, drove a white-hot dagger through his ribs, a wave of agony that half-erased the sound of his own guttural cry of pain. The wave spread into a pulsing haze, blurring his memory of the hail of blows that followed, the horrible, desperate sounds he only half-recognized as his own voice. No more questions, only harsh grunts of effort and a snarled tirade above him that pain rendered meaningless.

Rough hands eventually dragged him across the stone to his cell, where Much had spent his last energies pulling himself to the farthest corner, his revulsion at the accommodations abandoned in an overwhelming, animal desire to get _away_, and he had not moved in the hours since. Chilled though the dungeons were, the cool stone wall felt good against his cheek. If he held still just like this, cradling his useless right hand in his left, and shut his eyes, he was all right… he could manage….

Despite everything the man had done – stolen his master's lands, dealt the wound that nearly killed Robin in the Holy Land, tried to kill the King – Much had never considered that his own death might come at Gisborne's hands. Perhaps indirectly: a chance blow by a guard in a skirmish, or an unlucky mistake that set nooses around all their necks while Gisborne looked on in triumph. These possible fates Much had recognized long ago, realities driven home by Roy's brutal death in Nottingham. Much was reluctantly familiar with violent death, having witnessed and caused far more than he had wished, more than God had willed, in the Holy Land. On the battlefield, though, death was at least swift, if often gruesome, and the Sheriff's hangman was nothing if not practiced. Death by those means would be terrible, grotesque, but quickly done with.

This, though… this was slow and deliberate, Gisborne kicking the life out of him like a mongrel dog from the streets. Much couldn't lie to himself and pretend he would survive another session like the last. He could barely fill his lungs, what felt like that burning dagger still lodged in his side if he dared draw breath too deeply, too quickly. Much wasn't even sure he could stand, just now, though he wanted to pace, to find a way out of this cavern-like place that felt like being buried alive.

He was not resigned to death, not at all, though he half-wondered if that was only foolish hope on his part. His heart hammered in his chest, flying into his throat as if to escape at the very thought of how little time he might have left. But if he had to die so soon, if he really, truly did, he did not want it to be like this… Not without just a moment to say goodbye to Robin. Not without ever finding Eve, just to see her again.

He sniffled, waiting out the rising pain with a grimace when the invisible dagger wrenched sharply in retaliation. Another tear tickled its way down his cheek, and he turned his head slightly to smear the wetness away against the grimy stone. Surely Robin had a plan by now. If not, the others would have begun to pull something together, and Robin would sew it all up into a clever scheme soon enough. They wouldn't leave him here. That was something good, a tiny little spark of good in this whole horrible mess, though Much wasn't sure whether it really counted, as it hadn't happened yet, and might not. Robin might be too late. Still, he clung onto that miniscule hope, the happy dream that the next person who came through the forbidding oak panels would be his master.


	10. Chapter 10

**A happy almost-weekend to everyone! As I was getting ready to post this chapter, I realized that you guys are gaining on me here: the chapter I'm currently writing is only a few ahead of the one I'm posting! So I know what I'm doing with MY free time this week... ;)**

**LadyKate1: That resentment's certainly coming out now, whether Guy realizes it or not. :P He's having kind of a rough week, has been thwarted by Robin Hood so many times he's lost count, and had a punching bag down below with a remarkable resemblance to someone Robin cares about, unfortunately for Much. :/**

**DoubleDaggered: Oh, no! I didn't mean to kill off my readers… that's just rude. XD Hopefully this chapter will help you recover – it features the gang and Djaq, so you could always flag her down for medical aid. Please don't sue. o_o**

**SleepingwithinWater: I kept waiting and waiting for Eve to reappear in the series… :( Apart from the simple, sweet fact that they would have been happy together, I liked her because she gave Much a chance to be the hero for someone. He's already a caretaker figure, relentlessly teased by the gang, and essentially at the bottom of the gang's pecking order; Eve's presence showed the gang (and us) a stronger side of Much that didn't get to surface often.**

**The relative calm before a building storm... This was a fun chapter to write. I hope you enjoy! ~Si**

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The hours since dawn had hummed with planning and activity, Robin and all his gang eager to put their strategy into action, but Will Scarlett felt reluctance nagging at his heart. He'd spent the morning in Nottingham, waiting to report back with news of Gisborne's announcement, and now, jogging back through Sherwood at a steady pace, he couldn't shake the apprehension tightening his stomach.

As expected, curious townsfolk had gathered in the square that morning to hear the crier's words, and Will had listened closely, just another hooded face in the crowd. Since Gisborne was counting on word of mouth or actual members of the gang being present to get word back to Robin, Will felt slightly safer than usual, but he kept his head down and didn't press his luck. The Master-at-Arms, the crier had declared, was willing to offer the outlaw Robin Hood a generous bargain: the return of his currently-imprisoned manservant in exchange for the silver the outlaws had stolen. Not only that, but he gave his word that they would be safe from arrest for the duration of the meeting. Will had fought back a smile at these words. Just like Marian had promised. Then the crier read the last requirement of Gisborne's deal: Robin Hood himself must be present at the exchange, or the entire deal was off.

If Will believed for a minute that Robin would quietly agree to this change of plans, he wouldn't feel so reluctant right now. But no – this was Robin they were talking about, and there was no chance of him leaving Much's rescue to anyone else, even one of the gang. Beneath the nettling and exasperation, Will knew the two men were close as brothers, and his heart had gone out to Robin over the past days. He missed his own brother fiercely, but at least he knew Luke was safely out of the Sheriff's reach in Scarborough with their dad.

All heads turned when he trotted up the slope, most of the gang busy at various tasks outside the cave, and Will fortified himself with a deep breath of the cool earthy air. He hated when everybody got their hackles up and started arguing – really arguing, not just messing around. If only Robin could just trust them to get Much out of there… but then again, spoke a little voice in the back of his mind, what if it were Luke instead of Much, trapped and scared in the dungeons? If he were honest with himself, Will knew nothing would stop him from rescuing his brother right away, whatever that took.

"Hey, Will," Allan called over, tossing his armful of firewood in a heap by the cave entrance. "So Gisborne announce the swap, then?" he asked, dusting his hands on his trousers and picking his way down the slope. Robin was already striding down ahead; he'd dropped his knife and a handful of half-fletched arrows as soon as Will appeared. Djaq followed close behind, still holding a few black-banded feathers in her brown hands, and Little John peered out from the cave mouth like a drowsy bear. Robin clapped Will on the shoulder in welcome, saying, "He's set the place and time? No surprises for us?"

Will just shut his eyes and started talking.

Yes, Gisborne had announced the exchange in the square. Yes, he'd promised Much's freedom in exchange for the silver. Yes, he'd named the time and place: an hour before sundown this evening, in a clearing at the edge of Sherwood they all knew well. Robin turned on his heel with a satisfied nod, hands restless, focus already back on the unfinished arrows, and Will had to lunge awkwardly to catch his arm before he got too far.

"Robin, wait. There's just one problem…" Little John ambled down the slope curiously as Robin turned his full attention on Will, satisfaction draining from his features to leave little lines and grooves around his mouth and eyes.

"What problem?" he demanded, settling his hands on his hips.

"Gisborne said that Robin Hood has to be there. He's got to see you there, at the exchange, or the deal's off." In the pause that followed, there was time for one swift glance of apprehension between himself and Djaq before Robin let out his breath in a low growl, glaring at the ground between his boots, and Allan scoffed, "Well, what'd you expect? 'Course he's gonna want Robin there – he's not a _complete_ idiot…"

"It doesn't matter," Robin said loudly, hands still on his hips, head canting warningly in Allan's direction. "We stick to the original plan." His clear eyes flashed up, scored them all with the weight of command. "Will and I will go to Nottingham, and the rest of you will meet Gisborne."

"What, and have Gisborne take one good look around and call it off?" Allan retorted, coming a pace closer, gesturing hand swinging close to Robin's stone-stiff arm. "What good's that gonna do anybody? He'd probably go back and kill Much just to spite us!" Robin pivoted, and Little John's burly arm suddenly appeared between the two lean men, each set like a hound ready to jump at the other. Glaring at both men from underneath his unkempt curls, the older man stated, "We need a new plan. All right? To do that, you need clear heads, yes?" He lowered his arm but kept a distinctly parental eye on both men, who stewed about for a few moments before Robin shook his head and said, "I have to go to Nottingham. It's my fault Much is there at all. I can't just…." He clamped his jaw shut on the words, shaking his head stubbornly, and Will allowed himself a quiet sigh of frustration. A dark, close-shorn head appeared at his shoulder, and he glanced down: Djaq stood there, still absently smoothing the white-and-black feathers in her hand as she studied Robin's rigid frame, the archer's back to them as he shot another hard look at Allan.

Cautiously, choosing her words with the care Will associated with her soothing a fresh burn or cut, Djaq spoke up, "Robin, it makes sense for Will to go to Nottingham. He can unlock the doors and even the shackles. And you wish to go because Much is your dear friend. But in this case, what is there for you to do in Nottingham that one of us could not?" Robin's shoulders tensed visibly, Djaq's point hitting harder than she intended, perhaps, but their leader didn't reply, only shaking his head softly, and Will sent up a silent prayer of thanks. It was a good point, if a hard one, and Robin could hardly argue against it. Now they could get to modifying the plan and making preparations. Probably Allan or Little John would take Robin's place, since all Will really needed was someone to watch his back while he was working on a lock, and then help to get Much out of the castle. Djaq was quick and a startlingly fierce fighter, but there was no telling how badly Much was hurt; she wouldn't be able to support an injured man the entire way out to the gates, nor would it be fair to leave her to defend them if Will helped Much.

Then Robin half-turned to fix narrowed eyes on Djaq, and asked intently, "What did you just say?" Will's stomach clenched, and he nearly stepped forward to deflect Robin's ire from the petite woman beside him. But before he could do anything, Robin was already looking away, eyes gleaming and a peculiar smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. As his hopes took yet another dive, Will reflected that he understood now why Much always looked two seconds away from tearing his hair out when it came to his former master. Robin continued, almost to himself, "You're right, Djaq. There's not a single thing one of you couldn't do in my place…" He trailed off, scanning his gathered gang calculatingly, lingering for several beats longer on Allan, a sly smile tugging at the archer's lips.

"Whatever you're thinkin', the answer's no. Definitely not." Allan stared back at Robin warily, his voice tinged with apprehension. Will could hardly blame him, since the last time Robin had singled him out for a mission, Allan had spent the night trussed up to a tree, incoherent and looking like a week's worth of ale had caught up to him all at once, courtesy of the root Robin had belatedly warned him not to swallow.

In response to Allan's determined statement, Robin only grinned and tilted his head speculatively, circling around Little John to look Allan up and down.

"What?" Allan demanded, now looking genuinely alarmed. Another scan from his hair to his boots, then Robin turned sideways so he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Allan, saying, "Gisborne can't really hope to capture any of us – he knows we'll stay out of harm's way. But I'll have to make an appearance of some sort, just to reassure him…" Allan swatted the other man's hand away from his face, stepping back hastily, and Robin lowered his hand, which had been hovering from the top of his own head to Allan's, and simply smiled, looking disturbingly satisfied.

A quick glance at the others gave Will little insight. Little John, feet planted contentedly, was unabashedly enjoying every moment of Allan's discomfort, eyes crinkled merrily at the corners. Djaq's dark eyes were widening in some mute understanding with Robin's speeding brain. Will could only watch and hope Robin remembered to explain at least part of his new scheme.

"Listen, mate – start talkin' or I'm out of here, you hear me?" Allan said, and took a careful step back, clearly ready to follow through on his threat. Smug as a barnyard cat with a rat between its paws, Robin stepped back into place beside John and said simply, "_You_ are Robin Hood."

"Yeah, yeah – I know 'we are Robin Hood' and all that, but…" Then Allan went quiet, his gaze drifting slightly in realization, and Robin's strange behavior suddenly made sense. Gisborne out of the castle was a perfect chance to get into the dungeons unseen, but Gisborne wouldn't be gone long if Robin never showed for the trade. It wasn't like Robin really had to do anything there, though, nothing that one of the gang couldn't do in his place… Allan was nearly the same height, close to the same build, and was already going to the exchange anyway. With Robin's unique bow and sword, if he kept his face hidden….

Apparently coming to the same conclusions as Will, Allan scrubbed a hand roughly through his hair, making it stick up in front, and looked earnestly into Robin's smiling face.

"You're mad, you know that? This is crazy."

"But it'll work," Robin replied, confidence suffusing his expression and posture, his excitement contagious. Allan let out a reluctant groan.

"Fine… Who's in my gang, then? I can't play-act you lot all at once."

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**Just a quick question for my lovely readers: How long do you prefer your chapters? I'm fairly new to FFN, and because of how much the format changes after I post, chapters that looked comfortably long to me in Word look frustratingly short once I've submitted them. The upcoming chapters will be significantly longer, regardless - I just want to make sure I'm not driving anyone nuts in the meantime. ;) **

**Thank you for reading, and have a fantastic week! ~Si**


	11. Chapter 11

**Will was surprisingly clingy about his chance in the narrating spotlight. He's the youngest of the group, so I let him have his way, and he did quite a good job of it. ;) This chapter's a little on the short side, but the next several are double-length to make up for it!**

_DoubleDaggered_: Your reviews always make me laugh! Robin surprised me with his stubbornness - I was thinking along the same lines as you while I wrote that chapter, going, "Really, Robin? Seriously, you can't just… Fine, whatever… BE that way." :P

_LadyKate1_: Aahhh, blast. Those darn timeline issues. Thanks for pointing that out! Maybe Robin had been testing that line out on the gang privately before we got to hear it in season two. It seems like one he was fond of, along with his "My gang, to me!" phrase he tossed around for an episode or two. :P

_Destiny JoRayne Adams_: Thanks so much for your PM/review! I've been working on this fic for nearly nine months now, so a whole lot of love and effort has gone into these chapters; I'm so glad you're enjoying it! :)

_Prats 'R' Us_: I agree, definitely. Robin doesn't seem to realize how huge a part of Much's world he is. That's partly why I started writing this story: I felt Robin needed a figurative (or literal) slap upside the head to make him stop taking his friendship with Much so lightly. We'll see how well that goes... :P

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At long last, they were ready to do something useful. Not that the planning and strategy weren't essential, but it was a relief to be actually setting out, suddenly only a few hours away from getting Much back. Everyone stood ready in the cave except for Djaq and Little John, who were gathering a few tools and supplies to help aid the illusion that Robin and his full gang were present at the exchange.

On the other side of the fire from Will, Allan tried unsuccessfully to flatten his hair, drew his hood down low, and lifted Robin's Saracen bow, testing its weight. After donning Robin's cloak and practicing for a few hours, Allan could imitate Robin's posture and movements with impressive accuracy, for which a surprised Robin had complimented him. With only the firelight flickering across his deep hood and cloak, catching on the metalwork of the curved scabbard at his hip, even Will could almost mistake him for the infamous Robin Hood, and Gisborne certainly would, particularly from a distance.

"Oi – you lot nearly ready? Gonna be late meetin' with Gisborne." Djaq and Little John looked up from their packing in surprise, and Robin froze. Allan planted his hand on his hip, lightly swinging the bow in the other. "Haven't got all day, have we?"

Robin grimaced, face puckering like he'd bitten into a sour apple, and said, "All right, _that_ is a problem." If the situation had been any less serious, Will would have laughed at the affront in Allan's injured squawk of, "What?"

"Was that supposed to be me?" Robin asked, eyebrows climbing.

"Yeah – that's kind of the point here, I thought."

"Wonderful…" Their leader groaned and cast around the shadowed cave as if for inspiration. "I should have thought of this. _Blast_." When Allan tossed back his hood and glared, John snorted at his expression and said, "You look like Robin, move like him – you do _not_ sound like him."

Allan scoffed, Robin sighed, and Djaq looked up at Will, dark eyes narrowed in confusion, and murmured, "I do not understand. The pitch of their voices is very similar." Her sense of hearing being nearly the sharpest of the gang, Will had no answer for a moment. Then he mentally kicked himself: of course she would have trouble hearing the difference between accents. She'd only just learned the language at all. Speaking softly, not eager to make himself the target of his friends' frustration, Will leaned closer and replied, "No, I think the problem's the way they say things, you know? The way Robin'll say 'right', and when Allan says it, it's different: 'roight'." When her mouth quirked ever so slightly, her eyebrows lifting in question, Will added, "I know it's not a huge difference, but Gisborne'll notice. He'll know it's not Robin the minute Allan opens his mouth."

"Then he'll just have to keep his mouth shut," Robin sighed, his apologetic look lost on Allan. "John'll have to do the talking, or…."

"How am I supposed to stall 'im if you're not gonna let me talk?" Allan demanded. Robin didn't answer, motioning for them to put out the fire and move out. Beside Will, Djaq swung her pack over her shoulders and John lifted his own larger bundle of supplies, including a small chest supposedly filled with silver. In reality, if Gisborne got his hands on the box, he'd find a nice collection of river stones, but the plan didn't include him ever finding that out while the gang was still within bowshot.

Despite Allan's steady griping, Robin didn't speak again until they reached the point on the trail where they were to split up. He and Will stood facing the others, Allan between Djaq and John, an uneasy double of Robin.

"Stall Gisborne and his men, give us as much time as you can – whatever that takes," the real Robin ordered, fixing Allan with a tense gaze. Allan rubbed his thumb across the pommel of the Saracen blade at his belt and nodded. This flexing of the gang's unspoken rule sent a chill through the carpenter, but he kept quiet. If it came down to a choice between Gisborne's life or Much's, there was no contest. Robin continued, "Allan, meet us near the gates with a horse when you can. I'll watch for you. We'll all meet at camp tonight." Allan nodded again, somber as he replied simply, "Good luck, you two." He glanced at Will, blue eyes adding _Be careful, mate_. Will nodded, hoping to reassure his friend – and also to sooth the concern in a darker, gently tilted pair of eyes beside Allan – then turned and hurried to catch up with Robin's determined stride.

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Will followed Robin through Nottingham's gates beside a wagon of produce, jogging to replace a cabbage that had "fallen", and drew no attention whatsoever from the guards. Once inside, Robin struck out through the market immediately, Will trailing inconspicuously a few paces back. People jostled past, in a hurry to get their business finished before dark, and Will let them shunt him aside without complaint, keeping a casual eye on the figure up ahead. Robin had timed their arrival to coincide with Gisborne riding out, which, in theory, left them an hour or two to get in, find Much, and get out, ideally without the Sheriff's men realizing their prize prisoner was gone until it was far too late. Robin had a sword, just a plain one, hidden at his side under his cloak, and Will's axe and hatchet weighed comfortably at his back and belt, but they both knew that actually fighting their way out without the rest of the gang, let alone with Much unarmed and injured, would be nearly impossible.

Will sidestepped to avoid running into a scruffy-haired tailor, bolts of cloth fluttering over his shoulders like confused flags, and murmured a hasty apology. Ahead, Robin stood in the empty alley between two shops, and Will forced himself to keep his pace casual and unhurried as he strode to meet him.

"All right, Will. Which way in?" Robin waited for an answer with barely-restrained impatience, eyes almost glowing under his hood. Will considered for a long moment, despite the urgency of the question, because while they could take nearly any route they chose into the castle – Will was fairly bristling with lockpicks and makeshift keys, not knowing which they'd need on this trip – what mattered most right now was speed and silence. If they were spotted before they'd even reached the dungeons, they'd have no second chance to rescue Much. Deciding, Will met Robin's eyes confidently and whispered, "Kitchens. Doubt there'll be guards right now." Robin nodded and let Will take the lead as they strolled out onto the main street again. Gisborne had taken half the garrison with him, based on what they'd seen they approached the town, and apart from the uselessness of standing guard over a pile of rubbish, there was a definite air of laxity among the remaining members of the castle guard right now. Knowing neither the Sheriff nor Gisborne was about to appear and give them a tongue-lashing for standing about idle, many of the men they'd seen were taking advantage of the situation to do just that.

As Will had hoped, the trash chute from the kitchens was unguarded, and after waiting impatiently for a few aimless guards in the distance to turn their backs, they simply made a dash for the high-walled enclosure. Robin's boots disappeared up the stone shaft in a matter of seconds, and then it was Will's turn to scramble up the chute, elbows and knees scraping against the slimy stone. Robin helped him out into the warm kitchen, which was thankfully deserted for the moment, where they paused to get their bearings and brush the residue of old food from their clothes.

"We've only got a minute before somebody comes in to start supper for Gisborne and his lot," Will whispered. "You got us a route from here?"

Robin nodded once, a grim glint in his eyes, and took the lead again, striding across the flagstones with familiarity and assurance. As they slipped through the kitchen door and down the passage, Will made a token effort to slide his hatchet farther to the side on his belt, and saw Robin tug his cloak over the hilt of his sword. Their efforts would only give them maybe two additional seconds if they met anyone in the halls, but they could use all the advantage they could get.

After a few turns, rising one floor to the main level, Will had oriented himself, the rest of the route firmly set out in his mind. The only locks they should face would be the main dungeon door, if it was locked at all, and then the cell door. Maybe leg irons or shackles, though he couldn't imagine Much becoming enough of a threat to warrant such measures. Those obstacles were easily planned for, predictable. Guards were another matter, one far more difficult to anticipate….

He heard the scuff of a shoe against the ground ahead, around the corner, and instinctively darted into a side corridor with Robin. Pressed into the shadows, listening hard, they waited until the steps reached their turning, to reveal… only a serving girl with a basket of linens. She tucked her dark hair behind her ear, juggling the full basket on her knee, and passed their corridor without a glance, her steps echoing gently into the distance. Will snorted softly, glancing over at Robin, who gave a short smirk: they were both a little skittish.

And then they could see two bored men standing guard outside the dungeon, one propped lazily against the wall on one arm, gesturing with the other to emphasize his words. His companion, black-and-yellow livery hanging awkwardly off his bulky frame, was nodding sympathetically. Neither paid any attention to the hall, to the sound of soft-soled boots approaching by increments. A grim glance from Robin signaled Will to slip his hatchet loose, and they burst into the guards' vision in tandem, Robin's sword singing free of the sheath.

The guards, reacting an instant too late, went for their weapons, but Will slammed the solid haft of his hatchet into one man's helmet, and the other crumpled under a few precise blows from Robin's hilt and fist. No sooner had Robin's man clattered to the floor than someone's voice rippled dimly up from behind the thick door, and Will's heart settled into a steady, fighting rhythm. Hard to tell, but it sounded like somebody talking or shouting – not quite conversational, but not in pain. Another opponent down there, then, unless Much was in better spirits than they dared hope. Robin's face hardened, the same thoughts traveling across his face in an instant. A scuffling drifted to their ears, a soft sound that suddenly broke into a frenzy of rough oaths and cursing; hard on its heels came a lightning-sharp crack.

The thin cry that followed froze Robin in place for a threadbare instant as his features twisted and darkened with fury. He hauled the door open, the panel groaning wide on its hinges to wash both men in the cold stench of the place, and to offer the sight of the jailer clutching his leg in the middle of the shadowy crossroads, sweeping his other arm down at a familiar figure sprawled on the stone floor.

The scourge coiled tightly around Much's raised, shackled arm just before Robin's full weight sent the jailer crashing into the cell bars behind him. Knowing the clamor would draw unwanted attention, Will doubled back and heaved the unconscious guards' bodies into the dungeons, hauling them down the steps and barring the doors firmly from the inside. Catching his breath, Will turned around to see Robin delivering a sharp kick to the now-unmoving jailer's body. A quick listen at the crack between the doors reassured him that nobody was coming, and the carpenter leaped down the steps to Much's side.

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**There was no better place to break the chapters, honest. You gentle readers can't begrudge me this one cliffhanger, not when I've behaved myself so well up until now! :P**


	12. Chapter 12

**And now, the conclusion to last week's cliffhanger... Mwahaha. And it's quite a bit longer than usual, as promised. ^_^**

**Prats 'R' Us: **"Robin couldn't survive without Much, just like Much would be lost without Robin" – beautifully said, and absolutely true! Thanks for your review! :D

**ZeDancingHobbit:** I approve of your approval of this Much-whump. ^_^

**EternallyEC: **Thanks so much! I agree – Much would do or endure just about anything for Robin's sake. I don't think Robin realizes how much power he has when it comes to Much, which is kind of a scary thought. :/

**I couldn't tell you all how many revisions this chapter has seen. It's always such a temptation for me, on these chapters I really love, to try to include every single microscopic detail. I'm pleased with the final result, though, and I hope you all will be, too – the outlaws aren't out of the woods yet (no pun intended…)!**

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Robin had seen the worst side of humankind, seen atrocities committed he still had no words to describe. Those black memories woke him in the night, tried to hound him in his waking hours. They danced bloody and cold before his eyes every time he raised his bow. But even in the Holy Land, living in the midst of those horrors, Robin had remained stalwart, resolutely carving a path through the oncoming horde in the name of the King. None of those sights had turned his stomach over, sent such cold fear into his heart as seeing Much lying silent and bloody on the dirty stone.

Heart thudding in his throat, Robin dropped to the unyielding flagstones beside his best friend just as Will hurried over. The younger man crouched beside him, breathlessly reporting, "All clear," but Robin only registered the words peripherally. Much still lay half-curled, shackled arm shielding his face, trapped in shivering tableau though his tormentor was in a crumpled heap across the room. The white fabric of his sleeve was slowly darkening with scarlet, and the only movement Robin could see in the torchlight was the unsteady rise and fall of his chest. Not enough to go on, not enough to stop his ribs rattling with his heart's vicious beat. He needed to hear Much's voice, for Much to tell him what had happened so he could pay Gisborne back ten times over for the suffering he'd caused. Setting his sword aside within easy reach, Robin laid a gentle hand on Much's shoulder – and jerked back, reflexively catching the hand that clawed up at his face in a jangle of iron links.

"Much! Much, it's us!" The hand in his grip was slippery with blood, but Robin clung on tightly as Much tried to wrest his arm free, the pale face against the stone transformed almost beyond recognition by bruises and the glaze of instinctive fear. Snaring Much's wrist in his own left hand, Robin pressed his free hand to the side of Much's face despite his struggles, and said, "Much, it's all right! It's me!"

The panicked man's breath caught, wide eyes skittering upward to find Robin's face.

"M-master? Robin?" Robin worked up a reassuring smile from somewhere, and Much practically melted with relief, slumping back onto the stone with a whimper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry… I thought… He was…" A quick backwards glance at the jailer's unconscious body sent anger lancing through Robin's chest, because he could guess all too easily what they'd interrupted. With Gisborne away, the repulsive excuse for a man could have a go at the prisoner without fear of interruption or reprimand… or so he'd thought.

"It's all right," Robin repeated, adjusting his grip on Much's hand to help him sit up, as Will slipped an arm under his shoulders. The effort drew a thin groan from his friend's lips, twisted his face under the bruises, and Robin pulled Much close against his shoulder as soon as they had him upright. Much half-collapsed against him, and for a long moment Robin simply breathed, thanking God or fate or whoever was listening that the man leaning against him was alive, that they hadn't been too late.

Will plucked a slender lockpick from his cuff as he knelt in front of them, dark brows contracting when Much flinched back at his sudden appearance.

"Just need to get those off you, Much," he explained softly. Comprehension tinged with guilt blossomed on Much's tired face and he meekly held out his shackled wrists, looking anywhere except down at his hands.

"Please- Just be careful, please…" Much whispered as Will bent to his work, eyes shut in concentration, and Robin's gut clenched more tightly at the thin voice. Each breath came a little too quickly, a few shades too shallow for Robin's liking, and he glanced briefly at the dungeon door again, where all was still silent for now. The glassy distance in the blue eyes, the way Much didn't lean forward, stiffly upright despite his obvious discomfort, the way even Will's careful movements with the shackles left Much tremblingly tense, weathering a new wash of pain from a source Robin could only guess at – these details warned Robin that Gisborne had been as merciless as they'd feared. It would take precious minutes to ascertain just how badly Much was hurt, but they would spare the time and trust the rest of the gang to keep Gisborne occupied.

The first cuff clicked open, and Will's deft fingers moved to the next. Much's sigh of relief was cut off in a violent grimace, jaw clenching hard as he withdrew his hand. By now, Robin had expected to be bombarded with relieved exclamations, had braced himself for tearful embraces and questions like, "What took you so long?", and Much's continued silence was wearing on his nerves. This mute, pliable relief was entirely unlike him. Whatever had happened in these dungeons while Robin paced and planned in Sherwood had either broken Much's strength and will – a thought that tightened his arm around the bowed shoulders and set a dozen methods of killing Gisborne swirling through his mind – or Much was in enough pain right now that even he didn't feel like talking. Robin hoped it was the latter, cruel as the thought was, because the prospect of the former was too dark to bear thinking of.

A few seconds later, the shackles fell away, and Will immediately dragged them aside, disgust flickering across his usually stoic features. Pausing only to secure the lockpick in his sleeve again, Will tugged his faded green scarf loose to bandage Much's bleeding arm, and Robin decided he could not wait any longer. Much's pained breathing was no better, and they had only a little time left before they risked discovery.

"Much," Robin began, trying to catch his friend's gaze through the disheveled hair, past the darkly swelling bruise that held one eye half-shut. "Much, I need to know how badly you're hurt, all right?"

He waited through a careful breath, then another, before Much managed, "The worst… worst of it's my… my hand, I think." Will's expression was stricken, eyes already dark and tight on Much's right hand, his own hands paused in the process of bandaging Much's left arm. The hand held protectively against Much's chest was swollen and discolored, dark with bruises. Seen against the white linen, lit only by the torches above them, the contrast in color was stomach-turning. Some or all of his fingers had to be broken, and a tingle of unwelcome familiarity at the back of Robin's mind grew into a burning anger he had to exert all his strength not to show, lest Much think it was directed at him. He'd seen this before, heard of it among the villagers; apparently this was a favorite technique of Gisborne's. First one finger, then another, then another, until either the victim gave in to the agony or the limb was rendered useless, which was doubly cruel for those farmers and craftsmen whose livelihood depended on the use of their hands. Perhaps the only thing even marginally lucky about this was that Gisborne had apparently assumed Much was right-handed, leaving his dominant hand unharmed.

"All right," Robin said quietly as Will gently knotted the cloth. "What else, Much? We need to know."

"My side," Much rasped obediently, his eyes shutting wearily. "I think- Might have a… a cracked rib, or…" He paused for air, confirming Robin's guess, then summoned enough energy to continue, "Broken – a-a bit broken, maybe." He sniffed and scrubbed his face gingerly with the edge of his bloodied sleeve, streaking his cheek with scarlet. "Not to mention… beaten like a rug…." The faint trace of his usual petulant tone drew a small chuckle from Robin, an easing of the knot his heart had been since Much had been captured.

Will stood and caught Robin's eye, nodding meaningfully toward the room at the end of the corridor behind Much; that's where any of Much's belongings would be, probably in a heap against the wall, but it wouldn't do to call attention to Gisborne's personal torture chamber just now, and Robin was grateful for the younger man's tact. As Will slipped off, Robin moved to crouch in front of Much and offered a bracing smile, his hand on Much's shoulder doing more than Much himself to keep him upright.

"Enjoyed enough of the Sheriff's hospitality, then? Ready to come home?" The hope in Much's blue eyes was answer enough, but the words got lost for a bit and failed to escape Much's throat, and he finally settled for croaking earnestly, "Yes, just…. Just yes, please…" He shivered under Robin's hand, and Robin was relieved to hear Will's quiet steps returning. The younger man knelt and separated out Much's cloak and ragged beggar's jacket from the rest; these he handed over to Robin, while storing Much's sword, vest, and cap at his own belt for now. He also passed Robin a familiar pair of grey boots, and Robin ground his teeth when he realized Much's feet were bare against the icy stone, because Gisborne couldn't resist the chance to increase a prisoner's misery by any degree.

The jacket they tossed into a corner, since working Much's hand through the sleeve was out of the question. Wrapped in his cloak, wearing his boots again, Much's shivering finally began to lessen, and Robin's instincts warned him urgently that they'd spent all the time they could afford. One of the crumpled guards shifted minutely, the silvery sound of chainmail making them all tense instinctively. Robin glanced up at Will, murmuring, "Time to go," and received a short nod. To Much, he said, "We'll have a horse once we're outside the gates, but we'll have to make it that far on foot."

"I can make it," came the immediate reply, a little rough at the edges but determined. Robin crouched and pulled his friend's left arm across his shoulders, hearing the small sound in Much's throat when the bandaged wounds were aggravated but left with little choice. Better the discomfort of a few gashes reopened than trying to hold onto Robin's shoulder with broken fingers.

"On three, all right?"

When Robin stood, Much staggered heavily into him with a yelp that echoed around the dark cells, bent nearly double. They swayed there for several long seconds, Robin with his feet planted to steady Much, whose eyes were scrunched shut tightly, each breath a sharp gasp. Will took a half step forward as if to help, but Robin motioned him back; they needed one man free to wield a weapon, in case they were unlucky enough to run into trouble on the way out. Will withdrew reluctantly, watching with clear concern. They both knew that if Much couldn't even stand, their chances of getting out were next to nothing.

Then Much took a short breath, the decisive sniff they knew accompanied sudden resolve on his part, straightened almost upright and gasped, "Right… Let's go." Robin could feel Much's arm trembling with effort against the back of his neck, but he held his tongue and nodded Will toward the doors.

"Same way out," he nodded to Will, who took the stairs at a bound and listened closely at the seam between the door and wall. Miraculously, the corridors were silent, for Will gestured them onward almost at once, lifting the oak bar and pushing the door wide to allow Robin to squeeze through with Much. Apparently, with both the Sheriff and Gisborne away from home, the remaining guards had decided to spend their time more enjoyably than by guarding a nearly empty castle. This suited Robin just fine, and they set off after Will, who crept silently ahead with both axe and hatchet in hand.

The empty corridors proved a blessing, for retracing their steps to the kitchen entrance took almost twice as long. The balance between haste and allowing for Much's limping steps was a painful one, and Robin had to content himself with Much's valiant attempt to keep pace with Robin's quick walk. Hall to hall, down each long corridor with Will scouting ahead, once waving them back urgently, sending them staggering into a side passage while half a dozen guards hustled past in the opposite direction, until finally they neared the kitchens, and Robin growled low in his throat at the clatter of pans and cooks calling orders.

They had no other choice, and Will seemed to understand that in the same instant as Robin, changing course to lead them away from the firelit warmth and activity of the kitchen and down the corridor that opened onto the main courtyard of the castle. They'd be walking out right through Nottingham Castle's front door, but they'd run out of time and options, so Robin only murmured, "Come on, Much", and hurried onward again, supporting most of Much's weight for a long second when he stumbled.

By the time they caught up to Will, the younger outlaw had already scouted across the courtyard and knocked out the single guard loitering by the gates. He looked up sharply when they set foot on the cobblestones, nodding encouragement and falling back into the shadows by the gate where he had dragged the hapless guard's body. Robin would have flown across the distance if he could have, chafing at their slow progress even as his heart ached at the pain in each clumsy step beside him, at the way Much was panting, faltering, free arm bracing his ribs uselessly – the pressure would only make his hand and side worse. Despite all his misgivings, all his instincts screaming at him to find cover, Robin stopped beside the tree where the Sheriff liked to chain his surplus prisoners and let Much try to catch his breath.

He let a count of ten pass, and was about to urge Much onward again, when a cacophony of shouts broke out from the direction of the main city gates. Horses' hooves met stone at a gallop, one after another, the unmistakable bellow of Sir Guy of Gisborne rising over the chaos. Standing in the courtyard as it collected the setting sun's rays, they were as exposed as they could be, and it was only a matter of seconds before one of the horsemen would clatter through and the absent guards would rush back to their posts.

"Come on!" Robin said, hurrying them both forward as Will dashed to meet them and take Much's other arm. Fueled by the threat of Gisborne and all his men descending upon them, Much found some reserves of strength somewhere, and the trio staggered into the lengthening shadows behind a shop just as the first guards rushed from the castle to meet their companions, reaching for bridles and shouting questions.

Robin handed Much's weight into Will's waiting arms and leaned around the corner, hand on sword-hilt, just far enough to keep an eye on the commotion and be sure nobody had seen them. After a few seconds without pursuit, he let out a breath, dismissing that concern for the moment, and turned back to his companions.

Will scanned the nearby streets with hawk-like intensity, axe ready in one hand while he supported Much with his free arm. Beside the lean carpenter, Much looked utterly wretched. The setting sun left dirty smudges of shadow under his eyes and hollowed his cheeks, and it looked as though Will's arm and Much's white-knuckled grip on Will's shoulder were the only things holding him up. Still, he met Robin's eyes with resigned readiness and an almost-childlike trust that made something ache in Robin's chest.

"How are we getting past Gisborne?" Will asked, glancing at Robin with new concern in his eyes, the din from the main courtyard only increasing as the townspeople flocked to the scene.

Robin only shook his head, thinking hard. Things just couldn't go smoothly, now could they? Gisborne would only be back so soon, riding as if to outrun a storm, if something had gone wrong with the meeting. Allan's disguise must have failed, which meant the rest of the gang might be running for their lives right now, unable to reach Nottingham as planned.

The town would be closed off as soon as Gisborne realized his dungeons were empty. Staying inside the walls was out of the question, certain death, but reaching their camp deep inside Sherwood Forest on foot was equally impossible with Much hardly able to stand.

"Rob," Will said softly, urgently, "They're gonna close the gates. We can't stay here."

"I know, Will! But we can't-" Then a thought came to him, wonderful in its simplicity. They were trapped between two places, unable to stay and unable to return home, in the exact same situation that faced dozens of unfortunate villagers, the same poor men and women who now made a meager living begging at the town gates. Nobody looked twice at those homeless souls, and that disinterest would save their lives now.

"Follow me!"

Shopkeepers were milling about, taking down their wares in anticipation of closing up for the day, but had stopped their chores to watch the tumult. The crowd along the storefronts was the perfect cover for the trio as they began to work their way toward the main gates, Will up ahead once more while Robin and Much followed.

"And bring me that jailer _now_!" Gisborne shouted as they edged behind the shops, Robin's arm tight around Much; he felt the other man flinch at the lieutenant's roar. Will peered around the next building and waved them forward with one hand, the fingers of the other tight on the haft of his hatchet. Soon, they were a few seconds' sprint from the gates, leaning warily around the Trip to Jerusalem Inn. The main entrance was still choked with soldiers shoving past each other, horses shying at the commotion, and curious townsfolk cluttering up the edges of the scene. The guards were vigilant in keeping the townspeople off to the sides, however; three men trying to get through the main gates, with all the guards at their most alert… impossible. They were well and truly trapped, at least for now, and they didn't have long to wait for an opening.


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you so very much to all my readers, especially those who reviewed the last chapter – I received a record number of reviews, and have been happily rereading them all week. ^_^**

**ZeDancingHobbit: **Sadly, certain characters need a figurative beating over the head before they can see what's so obvious to the rest of us. Robin doesn't do things the easy way, unfortunately for Much….

**EternallyEC: **Much is trying very hard to be brave, as you said. :( He knows that their escape depends on him keeping it together long enough for Robin to pull this rescue off. We'll have to see how well that goes….

**LadyKate1: **Several people pointed out the moment you mentioned, where Robin hides his anger so Much won't think he's in trouble or something. I added that detail almost as an afterthought, just an "Oh, better not let Robin do that", and moved on; it's always amazing to see what moments or details strike each reader. :)

**Prats 'R' Us: **I'm going to have to start writing some of these beautiful lines down: "There's only one thing that can break Much, and that's Robin." It's so sadly true.

**Desi Jo: **Aw, what an amazing compliment! I'm delighted that you're enjoying this story so much!

**DoubleDaggered: **Writing Robin's point of view is a challenge for me, so I'm glad you think it all came across well. And I know how busy life gets, trust me! No worries about not reviewing – real life takes priority! :P

**In other news, I'm apparently unable to tell the days of the week apart anymore. I could have sworn my last update was a Friday, but since the very next day was undeniably Friday, you guys get another Thursday update! This might become a regular thing (assuming I don't forget when Thursday is, too). **

**Happy reading! ~Si**

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The tense set of Will's mouth as he turned back to Robin told Much they'd run into yet another snag in the plan. He must have groaned aloud, not just in his head, because Robin was suddenly easing Much down to sit on the ground against the wall, resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment. Raised voices, a lively conversation, filtered through the wood behind his head, and Much closed his eyes, trying to focus on his friends' murmured conversation above him.

"… time to wait for Allan to turn up?"

"We can't know for certain he will, now, and as soon as Gisborne realizes…"

No plan, then. Even with his eyes shut, Much could feel the tension radiating from his master, imagine the impatient expression, his eyes flashing about, collecting pieces of a new plan. Obviously bursting out in a blaze of glory, the way Robin loved so much, was out of the question. They needed some quiet way out, some story or disguise the guards would believe. Somebody started up a raucous song, a dozen intoxicated voices rising ungracefully to join in, and Much's head began to pound dismally.

"Drunken oafs…" he muttered. "Nobody wants to hear that…" Especially Much, just now. His entire body hurt unbearably, relentlessly, sharper pains splintering deeper where Gisborne had done the worst harm: his hand and his sides, the left side in particular, where he thought he could feel something shift when he walked.

"Much!" He forced his eyelids open in time for his master to press a fervent kiss to the top of his aching head, exclaiming, "You are a genius!" before darting around the corner of the inn and out of sight. Bewildered, he looked up at Will, who was staring after Robin as if doubting his sanity.

Half a minute or so later, Robin returned with a wooden mug in his hands, grinning.

"One of the guards left this out front when Gisborne arrived." He set the cup on the ground beside Much and proceeded to hand his swordbelt over to a confused Will, before tugging his cloak to hang at a haphazard angle.

"How am… How am I a genius, exactly?" Much said, compelled to ask despite the vice that closed on his chest whenever he drew breath to speak. Robin crouched and picked up the cup, replying, "The guards are all busy trying to keep Gisborne off their backs. They don't have time to deal with drunks and vagrants; they're just shoving them aside. If we're lucky, they'll send us right on our way. We can wait for Allan with the other beggars outside the gates." He flashed an apologetic look up at Will. "I don't think we can pull it off with more than two, Will. Can you find your way out, meet us?" The younger man nodded once confidently, eyes flicking up to check the alley. The mug appeared underneath Much's nose, and Robin was saying, "Take a sip or two, wash it around your mouth. We've got to smell the part as well as look it."

Much obeyed, realizing as he did so how desperately thirsty he was; he was parched, having gone without since the morning of their ill-fated raid, though he didn't know if Gisborne had ordered it so, or if they had simply forgotten him. It took all the self-control he could muster not to drain the mug dry, despite the strong flavor. Robin took the cup from his hand and gulped a quick mouthful, then deliberately dripped the ale down his shirt front, giving Much the same treatment. After using the dregs to rinse the most obvious bloodstains from Much's hand, Robin set the empty mug aside and helped Much to his feet. The world spun, the fog of ale giving it an extra push round, but finally Much's eyes cleared, and he saw Will with his sleeve to his face, pained expression and earnest nodding all the answer Robin needed.

"I'll do the talking," Robin murmured as they staggered out into the main street. Much's hood was low over his face, his cloak hung askew to hide his battered hand, and Robin's grip on his arm hid what bloodstains the makeshift bandage did not. To any observers, they were just a pair of drunks ambling home after wasting their pay on drink. Robin's steps began to waver, his entire posture and gait shifting, though his arm around Much was steady as ever. The change in pace knocked his bruised cheek against Robin's shoulder, startling a small moan from him, which Robin took as an immediate cue to start humming loudly. As they drew closer to the gates, he graduated to a mumbled line of song dissolving into giddy chuckles. Fewer people jostled them as they reached the gates, most everyone either returning to their business after the show Gisborne had put on, or possibly altering their route to avoid the two men; Much had to admit they certainly smelled the part.

Below the edge of his beggar's hood, Much watched the guards' boots come into view… and he also saw the abrupt step forward to bar their way, harsh voices rising. Robin was wrong. They'd been stopped. Any moment now they'd be calling for Gisborne… He shut his eyes, barely managing to swallow back a surge of panic.

"Ev'ning – wond'ful ev'ning!" Robin crowed, leaning in, swaying them both closer to the man. A disgusted sniff from the guard closest to them.

"Been at it a while, have you? Where are you two headed at this hour?" Another chuckle from Robin, who slurred, "Aww, we've been celebr- celebratin'." His careful enunciation of this word, imparted with all the earnestness of the truly intoxicated, drew a vaguely amused snort this time.

"Have you now?"

"Oh, yeah…" Robin's hand left the arm Much clung to his neck with, coming around to pat him exuberantly on the chest. "M'friend here's getting married to 'is sweet'art. Gotta get him back b'fore he drinks too much, y'know?" An alcohol-laden whisper that even Much could smell, drenched in the stuff though he was, "Gets a bit soused if you don't watch 'im."

A second chuckle joined the first guard's voice, his companion apparently catching Robin's words.

"Lor'… She that hard on the eyes?" This set both men laughing, Robin's unsteady chuckles intermingled as he took Much's arm again, swaying slightly. Between giggles, he choked out, "Gotta get going b'fore it gets too late… Jus' gotta nip over to Clun, get back or his mum'll…"

He staggered another step closer as he spoke, pulling Much with him, and the fumes finally overcame the guards' desire for entertainment. Robin swayed backward suddenly, and Much opened his eyes as the butt of the guard's spear returned to the dusty ground with a thud. Robin's voice held a touch of petulance as he drawled, "Steady on-"

"You've been swimming in it, both of you. You won't make it half a mile, let alone Clun; better off sleeping in the ditch over there with the rest of your lot. Get along now before you smell up our post."

Robin lingered a few moments longer until he gained a stifled oath and a clout to the back of his head to send him on. The guard gave Much a shove for good measure; he only kept his feet thanks to Robin's firm grip. They staggered on, boots clomping hollowly on the wooden planks, then muffled by dust and grass, swinging to the right in the direction of Clun. Just when Much feared his master would carry their charade all the way to the village itself, Robin changed direction, his steps steady and sure once more. Watching his own feet slip in and out of sight over the dusk-shadowed grass made his head spin again, and Robin might have already called his name once or twice when Much actually heard him and managed to raise his head.

They were well along the castle wall, on the edge of the little village of homeless poor who were perpetually begging at the gates. Robin lowered them both down to sit against the cooling stone, pulling his own hood low and looking around warily. Much tilted his head back and willed his abused body to relax, to be soothed by the chance to hold still. He was too tired to startle when an arm appeared around his shoulders again, drawing him closer, and he gratefully accepted the embrace, leaning into Robin's shoulder with a quiet groan that set the dagger in his side wrenching again.

There was a fine line, a slender barrier that marked the distinction between master and servant that they both still observed, despite Robin's insistence that Much was now a free man. Things had gotten muddled when they came home to England, when they found there was no Locksley, no Bonchurch to be had. They had fallen back into their old ways from years ago, a master and servant who were friends, instead of just being Robin and Much. But every now and then, Robin would remember and cross that line between them, and Much cherished those moments.

"All right, Much?" Robin asked quietly, voice vibrating under Much's ear, and he almost laughed, though the resulting pain would probably have sent him reeling into unconsciousness. He was so far from "all right" just now that he couldn't find the strength or breath to form a reply. Robin seemed to understand what his silence meant, though, and murmured, "Allan should be here soon", his arm tightening reassuringly. "We'll meet the others at the camp, let Djaq have a look at you." Exhausted though he was, something niggled at the back of Much's mind, and he worked up the energy to ask, "What's Allan doing?" His master's tone was natural enough on the surface, but something was definitely bothering him… and he'd said something to Will earlier, when Gisborne stormed back into Nottingham, something about Allan…

Robin shifted, drawing a breath before saying, "Well, he _was_ pretending to be me for the exchange, but I guess that's over with now. Gisborne did look a bit fussed, didn't he?" Much could hear the grin in Robin's words, but he wasn't making sense.

"Exchange?" Smaller sentences were good. Single words were better, definitely; his chest was finally easing up just slightly.

"Gisborne wanted a trade: we give him the silver we took, and he releases you. He'd never keep his word, of course, so we split up. Allan took my sword and bow, just so Gisborne didn't bolt as soon as he arrived." A few moments of silence, broken only by the distant chaos in Nottingham's streets. "The exchange was actually Marian's idea. She talked to Gisborne, let him think he came up with it himself." A barely-audible rustle as Robin glanced down at him briefly. "Tried to distract him, she said." That must have been why it took Gisborne so long to return, Much realized, after that one brief glimpse of Marian in the doorway. She had been there for just an instant, a blurred rose-colored figure like the haunting mirages the other men talked about in the Holy Land. Much only nodded against Robin's shoulder in answer, throat too tight to respond. He thought he'd imagined it afterward, all the wishful thinking gone to his head, mixed up with the pain.

Robin drew a hesitant breath, probably to ask a question Much desperately didn't want to think about just now, but lifted his head suddenly instead, scanning their dusky surroundings. This time, Much heard the low whistle too, one of Sherwood's night birds. Robin repeated the whistle softly, and after a few seconds of silence, Will Scarlett emerged from the dark, illuminated by the faint torchlight from the walls above. He sat on Much's other side, a welcome buffer against the night breeze that had begun to pick up, and pulled his hood down as well, wrapping his arms around his knees.

"Gisborne's forming a search party," he whispered past Much, who felt fear snake through his stomach. More like a hunting party. He couldn't take any more running. Simply standing would be a monumental task just now. "We've only got a couple of minutes at most: they're just changing horses. No sign of Allan?" Robin shook his head, again scanning the black line of trees across from Nottingham's walls. The sky above was barely lighter than that dark boundary, the setting sun having given up her last rays several minutes ago.

The three men sat in silence for a minute or so, time that stretched itself out into a year. Much could feel the tension wound tight through Robin's muscles, bound up in the statue-like shoulder against his cheek. Will was soundless as a shadow beside him.

Then a faint rumble, staccato and blurred, caught Much's ear. Will's head came up.

"Come on, Much!" Robin breathed, scrambling to his feet. Much ground his teeth to keep quiet as Robin pulled him upright, the sudden jolt shooting through him like fire. He tried to brace himself for the running they were about to do, a doomed, impossible thing.

"Wait–" Will stretched an arm out to stop Robin, peering out toward the forest. "Wait, Robin. I think it's…" The hoofbeats approached from the road, not the town, a single horse at a near-gallop, the figure on its back as shadowy as the mount itself. Robin's head whipped round as Will let out a short, sharp whistle; the horseman turned his mount's head abruptly, making for the trio.

Robin growled Will's name, but the younger man held his ground, saying, "No – Robin, it's all right!" The rider slowed as he reached the watery outer limit of the torchlight, and a small dark face peered around the stallion's neck, eyes wide. Will was already taking the horse's head, letting the petite rider slip to the ground, dwarfed by the snorting bay.

The shadows melted away to reveal Djaq, hurrying straight to Robin and Much, whose knees weakened dangerously with relief.

"Praise Allah!" she exclaimed, just barely stopping short of embracing the pair of them. "I did not know how quickly Gisborne would reach the city. I tried to come ahead of him, but he was already so far…. You are all right?"

"Felt better," Much croaked, almost wishing he hadn't spoken when Djaq got a better look at him, her face twisting in sympathy.

"There's no time, Djaq," Robin interjected, only a slender thread of regret coloring his stern words. He glanced sharply at the gates before continuing, "Where's Allan? He was supposed to meet us here."

"He is with John. One of Gisborne's men struck him in the leg with an arrow, and he was unable to ride." Seeing their expressions, she added, "He will be all right. He is in far better condition than Much is..." She stepped toward him again, but Will spoke up from behind her.

"They're gonna get caught if they stay any longer. Gisborne's riding out any minute." Robin was already pulling Much toward the horse before Will had finished speaking. It took Much a few seconds to realize there was no stirrup waiting in front of him, no saddle at all. Djaq appeared at his elbow, explaining, "The saddle was damaged. I had to leave it."

The stallion tossed its head uneasily. Robin only said, "We're both riding – it'll be easier without the saddle." A fistful of the horse's thick mane, Robin's hands for a stirrup, a blur of motion and sudden jolting pain… Then he was hunched over the stallion's neck with hands propping him up on either side, trying very hard to be still, to be quiet, to remember to breathe through the blackness threatening the edges of his vision. He felt Robin vault up behind him, taking the reins from Will and winding them once or twice around his hand to shorten them. The horse snorted vigorously, stamping a hoof in objection to the sudden doubled weight, but settled under Will's soothing hand.

"Here – take this, at least."

Djaq was reaching up, holding out a water-skin to Robin. Much had deliberately distracted himself from thoughts of water, realizing after the first few minutes of the rescue that neither of his friends had a water-skin. The sight of the leather container stole what little moisture he had left in his mouth.

Robin simply took the skin and nodded once to Will and Djaq before spurring the horse into motion with his heels. They wheeled round to face the forest and Robin snapped them into a canter toward the North Road, leaving the other two standing in the frail pool of torchlight.

Every beat of the horse's hooves against the ground sent a shock of breathtaking pain throbbing through Much's chest and arm, the rest of his bruised body crying out in chorus. This was worse than running, worse than creeping by painful degrees through the town. Something solid came up across his chest, pressing a moan from him, and he realized he had begun to tilt groundward, Robin's arm now hauling him back upright and holding him securely. The trees swallowed them, the darkness nearly complete as the canopy shut out the starlight.

The horse's coarse mane jounced from between Much's fingers and he fumbled for Robin's arm with his good hand, the shadowy world reeling past dizzily. Something was rasping softly nearby, out of time with the horse's hooves, and Much blearily realized it was his own breath; he almost wished he could stop breathing, just for a while, to ease the terrible pain in his side and the pulsing mess of agony that used to be his right hand.

"Easy, Much," came Robin's voice close by his ear. "Camp's not that far – you can make it." A low rumble, deeper than their horse's hooves, followed them down the road, and Much hoped dimly that it wasn't about to rain.

Robin swore, and dug his boots into their mount's ribs as the rumbling changed pitch, duller, but somehow closer. The stallion reluctantly stretched out into a ground-eating gallop, and Much's world flew away into sparkling agony.


	14. Chapter 14

** Hello! This chapter's somewhat shorter, but doesn't end on one of those rotten cliffhangers this time, I promise. ^_^ I debated over combining this chapter with the next one, but because of the changing viewpoints, I've given up trying to make all the scenes the same length; it would be a weird effect in an episode or movie, and wouldn't make much more sense in this story. I may post the next (much longer) chapter a little sooner, though, to make up for the relative shortness of this one. **

**ZeDancingHobbit: **Your review cracked me up! Glad you liked Robin's solution to the problem. ^_^

**Prats 'R' Us: **This chapter goes back to Robin's point of view, so hopefully it'll answer some of your concerns. You've got to remember, too, that right now he's a man on a mission, and if he stopped to consider some of the things you pointed out, he wouldn't be able to focus on getting Much to safety, which would really defeat the whole purpose of this little excursion. :P Thanks for a beautiful review!

**If any of you or those you know have been affected by super-storm Sandy, know that you're in my thoughts and prayers! **

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In any other situation, Robin would never have subjected a horse, even a trained soldier's mount, to this sort of strain. Riding double was twice the usual weight, and combined with its rider forcing such a punishing pace, Robin knew he was lucky the animal hadn't thrown them yet. As it was, the sharp ears were canted low, barely visible in the gloom, and the horse jerked angrily at the bit every few seconds.

The thunder of hooves behind him sent the horse's wellbeing to the bottom of his priorities, however. Gisborne and his men were little more than a few lengths behind, the lieutenant undoubtedly having whipped them into a bloodthirsty frenzy before riding out. He must have guessed Robin's plan – not difficult this time, given the distinct lack of options. Camp was the safest location, horseback the quickest way, and the North Road the only choice when riding at night. Gisborne must also realize that recapturing Much would do him no good at all; the Sheriff would return tomorrow regardless, and he would not have the missing silver in time. A captive outlaw might appease Vasey, true, but something warned Robin that Gisborne was not taking prisoners on this hunt. Two bloody outlaw carcasses would please Vasey just as well as one, with the silver now gone for good.

Much groaned again, hardly more than a breathless whimper. Robin knew he was hurting, the pace nightmarish for a man with his injuries, but slowing would see them both cut down within seconds. Turning off the road on horseback, galloping in the dark, would be suicide. At some point, they would have to leave the road, but Robin hoped to be much farther ahead of Gisborne's party at that point. There was a chance they had not been detected yet, their single horse's hoofbeats hidden among the others; if that were so, racing on was their best and only chance.

Gisborne remained an unseen menace while Robin flew onward just ahead of death's outstretched claws. The road stretched on forever, trees whipping past like black ghosts in blurred succession, and the horses might have been running in place for all the progress they seemed to make. Weak fingers pulled on Robin's arm, and Much twisted against him, panting something the wind slapped away out of hearing; Robin spared a glance and saw the other man's face contorted into a mask of pain, illuminated for a shocking instant by the feeble starlight fighting between the branches. His arms thrummed with the ache of keeping balance for two, and his heart ached for this new torment Much had to endure, but he quelled his own discomfort instantly. This was no different than retreating from the Saracens, a wounded soldier in his arms. You made no room for emotion, no thought for anything other than strategic retreat to safety, not with the enemy's blades reaching for your blood. Another mile or so, very soon now, and they'd be in the gang's home territory, near Will's snares and traps over the road. Off the road, back at camp, they could slow their frantic pace. There, Robin could tend to the man gasping in stifled agony against his shoulder. There, he could become just Robin again and feel all the ache and burn of righteous hatred against Gisborne and his lackeys for what they had done to his dearest friend. But for now he had to think, had to plan.

The road curved along a forested hill, and Robin felt the ground rise gently beneath his disgruntled mount's hooves. This was the first trap, then, in a moment or two. He swung the bay to the left, passing the well-hidden trigger on the right, and kept on down the dark road, listening with all his might behind them. He heard Much's voice instead, the faint syllables shaken apart by the horse's pace.

"Ma- Master…"

His soldier's instinct demanded that Robin ride on, grit his teeth against the pleading tones, and deal with it all when they reached camp. But this wasn't a battlefield: this was Sherwood. This was home, for now, and the forest was an ally here. A clamor of alarmed shouts erupted behind them, a tempest of whinnies and startled snorts from the men's mounts: as he had hoped, one of the horses had tripped Will's net-trap, leaving most of the men struggling to escape a net the width of the road. Much's fingers clawed into the fabric of his sleeve, digging into his arm, and Robin came to a decision, reining the bay in sharply, the horse splitting the cool dark air with a shriek at this newest offense.

Wasting no time, Robin flung the reins aside and got a firm grip on Much's shirt before dismounting. With no stirrup to slow his descent, this movement dragged Much from the horse's back as soon as Robin's boots hit the ground, but he was ready and caught the injured man, holding him clear as the stallion bolted eagerly down the North Road. Good – let Gisborne follow the beast. He could hear the soldiers forming back up under the lash of Gisborne's tongue, and staggered a step toward the trees on the left, the near side, muscles straining with the effort of supporting them both. Somehow he worked Much's good arm over his shoulder again and kept moving, a stream of whispered half-orders, half-pleas tumbling from his lips.

"Keep moving, Much. Just another few steps, a little farther… Come on…" He hardly expected a response; the man sagging beside him seemed barely conscious, breathing in ragged gasps, but somehow the weight across Robin's shoulders lightened by the barest amount, and the dragging feet began to find a bit of ineffectual footing as Robin cajoled him onward.

A few seconds later, he held his breath as the dull thunder of Gisborne's hunting party filled the night behind them, rising to a peak and falling, the orange feather-flickers of the torches shrinking down the road. Had it been daylight, or had the moon been full, Gisborne would have spotted them in a heartbeat.

Since the Holy Land, Robin had been sparing in his prayers to a God who seemed so aloof, but he released his breath in a silent "thank you" to that God now. Using Will's trap to orient himself, Robin knew there was a place ahead where a small hill had been worn away by the rains, leaving a miniature cliff-face with a hollow indent at the base. It wasn't even properly a cave, and would offer little protection from the elements, but all they needed right now was a place to sit and breathe and recover, someplace the gang could find them. Taking a short breath to steel himself, he tipped his head down and murmured, "Come on, Much. Just a little farther…"

The hill loomed black against the trees, just enough starlight filtering through the leaves to guide them around tree trunks and out of the chilling breeze. The overhang was wide enough but shallow, and with the threat of rain still lingering in the air Robin chose to settle them both sideways under the natural eaves, Much slumped low against his chest. They should be safe here, and if Gisborne did stumble upon them out of blind luck… he would think of something. Much lay a dead weight in his arms, but Robin could feel him shaking, each breath short and strained. When Much spoke, long minutes later, Robin thought he had imagined it at first; his voice was barely audible, worn away to nothing.

"Where…?"

Robin kept his voice low, removing the water-skin from his belt as he replied, "We're safe, not far from the camp. Gisborne's on the wrong trail." Bless Djaq for her quick thinking: Much was parched, his moan of relief at the taste of water a vivid reminder of searing heat and the hard lesson of the desert to conserve water, to learn to cherish every drop. It rankled at Robin's heart that he didn't know enough of medicine and healing to do anything while they waited but to make Much comfortable, or as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. Anything more would have to wait for Djaq.

Much had accused Robin of enjoying the sound of his own voice numerous times in the past. He might as well put that trait to good use now. It might help slow Robin's own heart to a more natural pace, as well. He still felt exposed so near the road, only a few minutes' careful search from discovery.

"What a sight we are, eh?" he said under his breath, dredging up a little humor to color his words. "The pair of us tucked away snugly, both fairly reeking of ale… The lads will think we've had a night out. Gotten drunk out of our wits and wandered out here to sleep it off." The slightest huff of amusement, barely more than an exhaled breath. "Allan will be jealous we went to the Trip without him, no doubt. John'll take us to task, of course, and we'll have to tell him we had a legitimate excuse for celebrating."

"M' wedding…" Much mumbled, surprising a chuckle from Robin.

"Exactly. And the Sheriff's guards will back us up. We've got witnesses – he'll have no choice but to believe us."

Silence grew in the space after Robin's words, but a little of the tension had melted from the air. The forest remained quiet, only the leaves rattling softly against each other and trees creaking. With any luck, Gisborne would chase his imagined quarry several miles further, though undoubtedly with more respect for the surprises Robin's men had arranged along the road. By the time they realized they'd been tricked for the second time that day, they would have no hope of finding where Robin and Much left the road. As planned, the rest of the gang would regroup at camp; he only hoped they wouldn't wait too long before trying to find their missing leader, for Much's sake. It was already late, and a night out in the cold wouldn't do either of them any good.

Much's shaking had stilled, for the most part, his face turned into Robin's arm, breathing shallowly but more evenly. He had been uncharacteristically quiet, all things considered, and that sent a shaft of worry into Robin's stomach. Much wouldn't be Much if he wasn't complaining about something, fussing over the way Little John prepared the rabbit, bemoaning the lack of respect the rest of the gang paid him, whatever the topic of the day was. Particularly if he received an injury more tangible than a blow to his pride, like the time Allan had nicked him during sparring practice, the whole camp would hear about it. Now, after his treatment at Gisborne's hands, not to mention the ride from Nottingham, which must have hurt hellishly, if anyone had a right to complain, Much did. This quiet worried Robin more than anything else.

_Hurry up, lads_, he thought, resting his head against the damp dirt behind him. Scanning the darkness again and seeing nothing, Robin closed his eyes and listened instead.


	15. Chapter 15

**The gang couldn't decide who wanted to narrate this one, and Little John was making a mess of it, so I gave the reins back to Allan again. If you think you may be detecting a slight bias in Allan's favor…. you're probably right. The more I write for him, the more I like the fellow (obnoxious though he can be). Little John will get his turn in a chapter or two, though; I promise not to leave him out. Thank you all for reading/reviewing - seeing the views tick upward each day is just wonderful, and I've never looked forward to Thursday/Friday so much in my life! **

**Lady Murdock: **I know what you mean – I was waiting eagerly for that Much-focused episode, too, and was sorely disappointed when I realized it simply wasn't going to happen. It seems like such an important piece of character development for both Much and Robin, and I'm amazed the scriptwriters didn't at least attempt it, along with all the rest of the changes they were making. :P I hope you and your family stay safe, warm, and dry!

**Prats 'R' Us: **Maybe a little bit biased. Just a tad. ;) There's a big part of me that wanted Robin to break down in the last chapter, apologies and tears and all, but it just wouldn't have been in character, sadly. He's not going to make this easy for me. :P

**Erin: **Thank you so much! You're right that this isn't going to be a quick and easy fix for Much. He bounces back from problems and near-misses so often that I think the gang kind of assumes he's indestructible, and he's really, really not. :(

**DoubleDaggered: **That does seem to be Much's luck, doesn't it? :(

**To all my readers who are still dealing with the aftermath of Sandy and the new storms rolling in – stay safe, and hang in there!**

* * *

"Can you hand me that bit? Thanks."

"Put these ends together-"

Allan drew a slow breath, grinding the heel of his hand into the rough bark of the oak beside him to distract from the unrelenting ache in his calf. The makeshift bandage there felt too tight, magnifying each pulse of pain, but Djaq had tied the cloth in place herself, and she knew what she was doing. A few yards away, barely visible in the gloom, Will gathered up the last folds of his abused net, collecting Djaq's armful, and heaved the bundled rope into the brush to repair and replace later. Little John stood in the middle of the road like a sentinel, staff planted firmly with one hand, torch flaring with the breeze and casting an orange glow around their little group.

Today hadn't gone at all according to plan, though they'd somehow managed to all come out alive, if not in one piece. It had been bad luck, simple and unavoidable, that Gisborne had ever realized the man he was shouting to wasn't Robin Hood, just a bad hand that bluffing couldn't improve. The plan had been to draw out the meeting as long as possible, and then make themselves scarce before the guards figured out the locked chest actually held rocks, not the promised silver. And Will had been right, of course, back at camp: Allan couldn't imitate Robin's voice along with everything else, not well enough to fool Gisborne. Little John and Djaq had done a valiant bit of work distracting the lieutenant, answering his typical barbs and snide comments with their own, saving Allan from having to answer himself, but that tactic couldn't work forever. The familiar silhouette on the hill hadn't satisfied Gisborne for long, and when he flat-out demanded that Robin answer, Allan knew the game was up.

In retrospect, it hadn't been his best idea to toss back his hood and call down, "Sorry, mate – you were lookin' for Robin _Hood_?" The grin and shrug thrown in afterward definitely topped his list of terrible decisions made lately.

The ensuing explosion of rage from the Master-at-Arms had seen John, Djaq, and Allan taking to their heels, leaving the decoy chest and the swarming guards in the clearing, but not before one of them had gotten off a lucky shot and sunk an arrow into Allan's calf. One minute he was running, the next he was sprawled on his face in the muddy leaves, too shocked to do anything but gulp a shaken breath as the sounds of pursuit drew closer. Only Little John pulling him upright and hurrying him along had saved Allan from a deeply unpleasant fate.

Then, strangely, Gisborne had called off the hunt, though he was perilously close to overtaking them, and swung his men off at a gallop toward Nottingham. The gang's original plan had been left in a shambles, since Allan was supposed to be meeting the others with a horse right about then, but Djaq had kept her head, as always. She'd set John to keep a lookout and stop Allan's leg bleeding, while she managed to catch and quiet one of the guards' mounts, the saddle slung around its ribs, a buckle missing from the torn leather. A few pain-blurred minutes later, Allan's leg was bound and Djaq had ridden off bareback like the devil was at her heels. They'd never seen her ride before, and Allan hadn't been entirely sure she could – did women do much riding where she came from? – but even riding without a saddle hadn't daunted her, and Allan had to admit he was impressed.

"Robin wouldn't have tripped this on himself," Will commented as he dusted off his hands and rejoined them, "no matter how much of a hurry he was in. Must've been Gisborne and his men coming through." The profusion of hoofmarks matched Will's interpretation of the scene, and Allan's heart lifted a little from the place deep down in his chest where it had settled. Robin had made it far enough to lead Gisborne into at least one of their traps; that had to be a good sign. John crouched to examine the tracks further, and Allan tried to resist the urge to groan with mingled impatience and pain. If he sat down now, it'd take all three of the others to get him upright again, but he wasn't going to be able to just stand there much longer. Djaq joined them, completing their little group, and waited in silence to hear what the trail told them. The petite Saracen woman and the lean carpenter had appeared out of the darkness like ghosts about an hour ago, as John and Allan were walking and limping (respectively) toward camp, only Will's preceding whistle saving him from a sturdy knock in the skull with John's staff. Djaq had quickly filled them in on Robin's successful rescue as they went on together. From the sound of it, Robin had gotten a decent start, but the sheer number of hoofprints spoke of even more determined and ruthless pursuit than usual, and Allan couldn't quite quell the worry gnawing in his stomach.

"They've returned to Nottingham," John announced, straightening carefully with the torch. "Half these tracks go the other way." His statement hung in the cool air, three flame-lit faces looking back at him, unwilling to voice the question that rose in those words' wake: Did Gisborne return empty-handed or not?

"Safe enough to take the road, then." Allan limped up to join them on the muddy North Road, grimacing. "Robin'll turn up like he always does, right?" He leaned gratefully on Will's shoulder when the other man took up a position next to him again, and Djaq spoke up, her gentle voice and strange accent almost otherworldly in the gloomy darkness.

"We should look for marks where Robin might have left the road. Whatever happened, I do not believe they would have been able to reach the camp." She hadn't said anything about Robin being hurt, only that Much was "not well", and that she knew nothing else for certain, that she could tell them more when they were all together again. Reading her dark eyes was still a challenge, her small features taking on a studied stillness when she wanted to hide her thoughts, but Allan caught sight of a deep worry she was quick to conceal. She said nothing more, and John took the lead wordlessly, nodding them onward in his own inscrutable way.

They took their time, treading carefully in the churned-up earth. John strode along in tense silence, shaggy hair swaying as he ducked out of the torch's smoky trail, while Djaq flitted shadow-like at his side, now and then casting from one side of the path to the other. Allan and Will made up the rear guard, the younger man matching his pace to Allan's limping gait with his usual patience, for which Allan was mutely thankful. The entire forest held a hush, the breeze lofting a cautioning whisper through the branches above them. But for the multitude of tracks under their boots, it might have been any ordinary night in Sherwood.

"Here!" Djaq cried softly, holding her hand up to ward them back. "These marks here-" When John leaned in, she stepped aside and gestured at a set of smeared bootprints that cut a chunk of mud from the edge of the road.

"What – so they jus' got off the horse and thought they'd have a nice stroll?" Allan didn't bother to force the slight whine from his voice when he spoke up. He'd had an arrow in his leg not two hours ago – if anyone had a right to complain, it was him, hang it all.

Will turned to look at him, probably with that faintly reproving expression he got sometimes, so Allan ignored him, eyes on Djaq as she replied, "I don't know," shaking her head in frustration as she threw an arm to the forest; John had to swing the torch aside to avoid lighting her sleeve afire. "I don't know where they could have gone. It is impossible to read the trail through this…" Her gesture took in the black bars of tree-trunks and the hidden expanse of leaf-covered ground that lay like a shadowed rug beneath them. The signs pointed them off at a sharp angle away from the camp, something Robin would certainly have known. So would Much, but no one knew what sort of shape he was in except Djaq and Will, who offered only reluctant shrugs and tight-lipped shakes of their heads; only made sense to assume Robin was the one making all the decisions for the two of them right now.

They stood there in the cool breeze for a few long moments, Allan wracking his exhausted brains, trying to place himself in Robin's mind, to understand where he could possibly have been headed with Gisborne on his tail and a wounded man to manage. It didn't make sense, and Allan stifled another sigh. Robin had to make this difficult for them, didn't he? Had to go and start up a game of "come and find me" instead of just following the road another mile and reaching camp like any sane person would have.

His brooding was interrupted by Will's surprised voice.

"I know where they've gone. At least, probably where they've gone." His eyes flicked from Djaq to John and back, unsteady in the torchlight, but he continued, "There's that old hill, remember? If they had to stop, and needed shelter…" John snorted suddenly at this, his deep chuckle earning a piercing stare from Djaq and identical puzzled frowns from Will and Allan.

"They'd be better off making for camp. That ledge wouldn't keep the rain from a rabbit." His wry tone suggested he knew from experience. But if Much was as bad off as Djaq's somber non-answers suggested, then that would be just the sort of place Robin would make for. It was a non-descript area of the forest, unremarkable except to the gang, who had learned the contours of Sherwood as a matter of self-defense, and known well enough to them all that Robin could expect them to search there sooner rather than later.

Will was already towing Allan off the road with him, brushing past John with an apologetic, "There's nothing else this direction. Robin would've made for it – he knows we'd check there." When Djaq hurried past to catch up, John was left to heave a rumbling sigh and stride up behind them with the torch, disagreement audible in his heavy steps.

After a minute or two making much louder progress than they would have liked, mostly thanks to Allan's uneven steps, the hill rose ahead and John took the lead again, peering warily through the gloom. At first, all they saw was the shallow cut in the hill filled with night shadows, mounded and indistinct. A few steps closer, and then a human form materialized – two, one lying against the other, motionless and silent, while the second lifted his head to reveal eyes dark with worry, and a hand darting to his belt.

"Robin!" John's voice drew a gusty sigh from the sitting figure, which torchlight soon revealed to be their missing leader replacing his knife in its sheath and looking out at them with undisguised relief. Robin's features were haggard, eyes glittering, and as the rest of the gang gathered round eagerly, those eyes flickered among them all, counting, lingering on Allan's bandaged leg, reassuring himself that all his men were present and relatively whole. That thought immediately brought Allan's eyes back to the still body propped against Robin's chest, head pillowed in the crook of his arm: unmistakably Much, but so bruised and begrimed it looked as if Robin had dragged him face-down through the forest on the way here. For all he moved, the manservant might as easily have been dead as asleep, but then Allan saw his chest rise faintly, and he hastily pushed aside the thought before it drew even more ill luck down on them all.

Djaq hurried ahead to kneel beside Robin, and John crouched to hold the torch close, his sturdy staff set close at hand. Gritting his teeth as Will helped him sit gracelessly on the forest floor, Allan nodded his thanks, and Will sat down beside him, deliberately close enough for Allan to lean against him slightly, taking a little pressure off his leg. Robin's Saracen blade was cumbersome, and Allan had been forced to fasten both the quiver and the recurve bow over his shoulders after he was hurt, to leave his arms free for balance; the combination was both frustrating and confining. Cast into burly silhouette by the torch, Little John's shaggy head jerked back suddenly, and the bear-like man met Robin's eyes with incredulity.

"Why do you-" He sniffed carefully again, rough burr disbelieving. "Have you two been _drinking_?" Sure enough, the light breeze carried the scent of the Trip Inn's signature ale, utterly out of place here in the middle of Sherwood, and Allan saw the corner of Robin's mouth twitch upward wearily before he replied, "Getting out of Nottingham required a bit of creativity. It'll make for a story later, I can promise you, but for now…" His expression sobered as he looked down at Much, and he continued quietly, "Can you do anything for him here, Djaq?" Her small hands were already ghosting over Much's pale face, resting against his throat for carefully counted seconds, and Allan felt a twinge of relieved guilt to know that he was not alone in wondering at first whether they had come across Robin holding only the body of his friend.

"Tell me what you can about his injuries," Djaq said simply, motioning for more light. "How long has he been unconscious?" John brought the torch forward as Djaq ran a gentle, seeking hand through Much's hair, and Robin frowned.

"I don't… Maybe half an hour."

Apparently satisfied that this was a natural sleep, not one caused by a knock to the head, Djaq leaned back and nodded for Robin to continue; with a heavy breath, he went on, "Gisborne beat him within an inch of his life. He can't breathe properly… he said maybe a broken rib. His hand…." Robin trailed off when he saw Djaq already reaching for the hand resting on Much's chest, and her tentative movements revealed as dark bruises what Allan had thought were only shadows. Gently, Djaq slid her hand under Much's wrist, but even that slight touch was enough to bring Much whimpering back to consciousness, shadows joining the bruises in the torchlight to turn his grimace grotesque.

Djaq reached out to still his sluggish attempt to escape the torch's bright glare, but Much jolted under the sudden pressure on his shoulders, and as both Robin and Djaq tried to calm the injured man with low voices, Allan's heart sank just a bit. If there had been any doubt before, then Much's panicked movements, the brief flare of terror on his face, confirmed what Marian had told them: Much had been tortured by Gisborne. And Allan knew torture, though that wasn't a tale he'd go telling the lads around the fire anytime soon, or ever. After nearly three days in the dungeons with Gisborne's undivided attention… Allan quietly recited a litany of curses in his head, and wondered what Robin would do when they reached camp to find half of Nottingham's garrison making themselves comfortable and sharpening their blades. Not being funny or anything this time, because the whole gang knew the wide-eyed man held secrets about as well as a sieve. When it came to details about Robin, stuff about the Holy Land, he'd sometimes go quiet or change the subject, but cute little tricks like that didn't work with Gisborne.

Much lay still again, gasping, working up a tentative nod when Djaq quietly asked something. It was a mark of how miserable the man must have felt that he didn't try to sit up, showed no sign of wounded pride despite lying cradled in Robin's arms like a helpless infant. Allan couldn't be sure Much had even noticed anyone else besides Djaq yet. The bruised eyes were already tightly shut again as their resident healer began her careful examination of Much's ribs through his thin shirt, murmuring what sounded like apologies as she went.

Between Allan's own fatigue and the hectic pace of the day, the whole scene was turning surreal. It was getting on to midnight by now, or close enough to it, and here they all sat cozily a mile from camp with Much lying in Robin's arms, beaten half to death. It was like somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd thought they would just rescue Much, dust him off, and the gang could carry on as always. Much didn't get hurt, he just didn't, at least not in any real way. They'd all laughed over him tripping over his own feet, heard him yelp over a burnt finger near the cookfire, but whenever Djaq had to actually sit down and tend something worse than a scratch, Much was the one fetching for her, not sitting in front of her.

Allan jumped, and Will flinched beside him, when a shift of Djaq's probing hands pressed a hoarse cry from Much, almost obscenely loud in the shadowy forest. Much pressed his bloodstained sleeve to his mouth an instant later, Djaq sitting back with sympathetic eyes, while John looked on gravely. As the small woman leaned back, Much drew a slow breath against his fist that was probably meant to be steadying; instead he sounded like he was about to cry. Allan had to amend that thought a moment later, when Much clumsily rubbed his good hand across his eyes, leaving suspiciously shiny streaks through the dust and blood. Much's efforts only ended up smearing his face further, and Robin finally reached over gently to halt his increasingly fretful movements. The manservant was obviously clinging to composure by the thinnest of threads, and Allan felt keenly as if he were intruding somehow by being there. Not that he could just get up and amble on to the camp, but neither Djaq nor Much needed them all sitting around and gawping like this.

The nice, steady shape of Will beside him vanished suddenly, and Allan thrust out an arm to keep from toppling sideways, biting back a few choice words when the pain in his leg flared sharp and hot again. The young carpenter ducked down beside Djaq for a few moments, listening intently, then nodded and stood to take the torch from John's hand. Everyone shifted away and to the sides as the torch-lit circle widened, giving John room to crouch down where Djaq had been kneeling.

"You must be careful, John," Djaq said from her anxious place next to Will. "Too much movement could…" She trailed off with the faintest trace of uncharacteristic sheepishness on her face when John twisted around to look at her, face ruddy and eyes twinkling faintly in the orange glow. His voice held a rare note of humor as he said, "We'll be fine, Djaq." With surprising gentleness, the big man took Much's weight from Robin's arms and stood, the disheveled head high on his shoulder. The movement wrenched a strangled groan from Much that left John hurriedly adjusting his grip to support the suddenly limp body in his arms. He exchanged a regretful, unsurprised glance with Djaq, but honestly, Much was probably better off this way. Spared him the pain for a while, and the embarrassment of having to be carried back to camp, if Much would have even cared at this point.

Robin stood stiffly, staggering a step or two, and accepted one of the plain swords Will had been wearing – he must have held Robin's for him at some point before they split up. Whatever their clever plan for getting out of town had been, swords would have given them away, no doubt. Much's sword still waited on the carpenter's belt, alongside its owner's cap and vest, suggesting just how rushed their exit from Nottingham had actually been. No time even to give Much his cap.

Robin sighed softly, shadows finding and settling into the lines furrowing his forehead, draining inkily down to fill the hollows around his eyes, and looked over at Allan, who sat in the leaves with Robin's weapons and cloak like a defeated doppelganger, an alternate self with worse luck. The real Robin looked him over distantly for an interminable second or two, as if trying to remember what his men had been doing while he was away, and Allan shifted his gaze, glad when Will came over to help him up. A few seconds of murmuring between Djaq, John, and Robin, and then the big man set off slowly with his burden. Robin took the torch from Will and strode wearily ahead, wearing a barely-credible mask of assurance, a faded and moth-eaten confidence. Djaq collected Will and Allan with her eyes before following, and Allan's slow, limping steps made up the rear; his human crutch stopped to pick up Little John's staff and scan the area, making sure they'd left no trace, before nodding to himself, or to Allan, or to no one, and moving on.

There was a vaguely funereal atmosphere to their hushed procession, and it didn't sit right with Allan, like someone breathing a chill down the back of his neck. Djaq was uncanny when it came to sorting things like this, though, really. She knew stuff they didn't, could tell you where every bone was in a body and how it ought to work together with the rest, could tell you so much about how it all ought to work that Allan sometimes half-wondered if she just made it up on the spot to show them up for doubting her. But it worked, everything she did, and it wasn't like Much had already passed on or anything. He'd taken a good beating, of the caliber only Gisborne and his lot could dish out, and maybe a few other things – his hand had looked nasty, definitely something broken there – but they'd gotten him back, hadn't they? They'd got him back, and Djaq could work her little bit of magic on him, and things would be all right in the end.

Up ahead, Robin led the way without a sound, and Allan wondered if those same thoughts sounded just as hollow in their leader's mind as they did in his own.


	16. Chapter 16

**Many thanks to all you wonderful readers, both for reading and for reviewing! ^_^**

**Just a note - this should be the last of the shorter chapters. All the following chapters I have written and ready are of far more respectable length, but I felt this one needed to stand alone. In this case, the length works well, I think. If it doesn't, you guys let me know. :P**

**LadyMurdock: **I'm firmly in denial about the ending the writers gave Allan. I couldn't tell you how many times growing up I warned younger siblings "If you're not going to treat that toy/book/stuffed animal right, you're not going to be allowed to play with it…", and that's the same attitude I find myself taking with the scriptwriters here. There was no reason to doom certain characters to such tragic fates; it makes my heart ache just to think about it, and the show gained nothing from it. So I've mentally gathered up all those poor characters and put them safely (well, relatively safely…) into a never-ending Season One of my mind, where eventually the bad guys lose and the good guys win, and nobody meets undeserved ends because the scriptwriters thought it'd be "interesting". :P

**DoubleDaggered: **Allan has some impulse-control problems. :P He thought the dramatic reveal would be a pretty funny idea, too, until he actually did it. Turns out being Robin Hood involves a lot more peril and a lot less glamor than he was hoping. ;)

**LadyKate1:** It always seemed to me that Allan was half-fascinated by Djaq, especially in the first few episodes after "Turk Flu". She's so completely outside of his experience, he didn't know quite what to make of her at first. I'm glad you came through Sandy safely – enjoy your vacation! Sounds like you've earned it over the past few weeks. ;)

**Prats 'R' Us:** Thank you so much! This story is a sort of practice run (in terms of finishing such a large writing project) for writing an actual novel, and it's enormously encouraging to hear that you like what you're reading! Allan's one of my favorite characters to write for (after Much, of course), mainly because of his sense of humor. He can find something darkly amusing in any situation, and I'm glad I let him narrate that last chapter, to lighten the mood just a shade or so. :)

* * *

For the first time in a long while, Much was almost comfortable. His limbs were lead weights, useless and heavy, but that was all right. He didn't feel like moving just now, though he lay on the peculiar border between slightly cramped and snugly tucked away somewhere. He didn't care, really. It didn't hurt, and that was nice. The whole world was rocking slightly though, not quite in rhythm with itself, swaying him, and Much turned his face further into the warmth, feeling vaguely ill. That happened a lot though, lately. He hadn't been so bad in the past few days, he didn't think…. Robin had warned him about that before they sailed, had said that lots of people found the journey didn't agree with them at first. And seasick Much had been, miserably and thoroughly, until one day he'd opened his eyes from what he'd half-hoped had been an early death, and he didn't feel quite so horribly sick as before.

If Robin had been seasick, he'd hidden it well, at least until Much wasn't paying any more attention to him, preoccupied with his own growing misery. He'd looked pale and restless the first day or so, prowling like a trapped barnyard cat in their quarters when he wasn't dozing in his bunk, but he'd shaken it off quickly enough after that, leaving Much to hide his head beneath the blankets and try to ignore the way the ocean wouldn't stop toying with the ship. The whole craft, enormous as it was, swayed at the slightest push from the waters, which batted it curiously this way and that, as if testing to see how far its playful water-paws could press before the whole thing simply tipped over and emptied into the water.

The waves gave a harder shove, and something stabbed suddenly in his side and hand, but Much's wordless moan half-vanished under the sound of timbers groaning soothingly, as if admonishing the water back to its easy almost-rhythm. There were almost words in the low sound, but the strange pain began to fade again, and the ocean resumed its gentle pace.

The ocean had turned out to be far larger than he could conceive, more vast than his mind could hold. It was endless fields and fields of grey water, lifting and dropping away beneath their creaking ship like a huge blanket. Robin told him the ship was sailing faster than the swiftest horse, but they traveled for days upon days without seeing a change. The sky changed, though. It was the same sky as the one above England, of course, but not the same. This sky didn't smile down or go cloudy with tears – it swept from an implacable blue gaze to glaring through a storm, a bared-teeth tempest…

Much decided quickly that he didn't like the ocean, hated the bottomless way the waves never settled. There could never be a familiar landmark or wayside there. Even the grinning sailors who claimed to adore the sea, calling her by sweet names like a lover, they used the stars to find their way. They pulled themselves and the ship across the water by those tenuous handholds, night after lonesome night, and Much could have wept for earth beneath his feet again.

Then they reached the other side of that endless expanse, and only Robin's presence at his side kept him from retreating back onto the ship and home. They stepped out onto another ocean made of sand and astonishing heat, filled with eyes staring from under dusty cloths and the ever-present thirst that they somehow learned to live with. The language was incomprehensible, rippling past like ribbon unspooling. The damp and rains of their homeland blew from their clothes as dust in the furnace-like air, barely there to recall at night when Much lay in their tent and tried to dream of home. When Robin heard his homesick tears one night in the first month, he joked without a smile that they had to preserve what water they had. After that, every drop Much encountered was magnified in his mind. They might have been diamonds. But he still couldn't help leaving a few on his pillow as the months stretched into a year, then two, three, and on.

His master's ready grin was still present, bracing their fellow Crusaders both in the camp and as the King's Guard rode out yet again. Robin's boundless energy, quick mind, and genuine care for each man had not changed, but other things crept in, trailing back with them like the sand-coated bloodstains soaked into the hem of Much's cloak. Silences grew longer between them. Robin's temper frayed at the edges, and Much learned to wake his master in the mornings with his voice only, not his hand, after he found a dagger poised at his throat.

The steady support under him suddenly vanished, and Much panicked against the feeling of falling, arms too heavy to obey, to stop his fall. Then he wasn't falling anymore, blankets and solid earth beneath him, but a confusion of voices all around him made his head throb (_-an you hear me?_), hot pain jolting through his side to steal his breath (_-only us, don't-_). Robin's voice wove in and out of the others, tangled too deeply to find and hold onto. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and Robin was calling for him somewhere nearby, fear drawing his master's voice tight like a bowstring. Again his name, and Much couldn't find his sword, couldn't make his arm rise to grasp it and follow out into the night and screams where his master lay bleeding into the sand.

Inky shapes poured down from the night itself, and a black-robed Saracen raider turned to pierce him with a blue-eyed stare. The eyes were pale, ice the desert could not melt, and someone drove a dagger made of ice into his master's side, this time with a grunt of effort to pierce the armor and living flesh. Another rough sound, black-clad fists swinging out of the flickering torchlight at Much's face, into his stomach, everywhere that hurt, and his hands were pinned by his sides, rope wrapped like long fingers around his wrists, touching his sore face with soft sounds. He can hear moans, dreadful, pleading sounds, and needs to free his hand to find Robin in the darkness, because he's so warm Much can feel the heat on his face, the fever radiating out of his master like a consuming demon lighting his skin afire. Robin's so sick, crying for Marian like a lost child, and fear courses through Much again, a shaking fist clenched in his gut, cold hands trailing across his temples at the thought of losing Robin to this invisible death-dealer, this slow, lingering agony.

The ropes twist tighter as he struggles, holding him fast with falsely soothing whispers, and then his hand explodes into splinters of bloody glass, until all he can see is the throbbing red pain behind his eyelids. Wood, rough and earthy, grates between his teeth, and heavy hands lean hard on his shoulders. Voices skitter through the air above him, cut lines through the white-hot pain, weight on his legs and shoulders crushing him to stillness. Then finally Robin's voice, urgent and close, heralding an end to the agony like the sun setting, the blinding white bleeding slowly into gold, then orange, then a darker scarlet that let Much breathe again, notice a different voice that dipped and danced unexpectedly, that smelled of sweet herbs and touched his face gently, brushing away the wetness. The voice asked something, the words falling apart before they reached his ears, but questions were dangerous, delivering him back to the pain and the dark, and Much tried to say "I won't tell you where Robin is". The world tipped again, a sudden swell of black water beneath him, and more wood tapped against his teeth, gently this time, a heady scent of herbs filling the air around him.

He tried not to drink too much, because water was precious, they had to ration everything so carefully, and Robin had to drink too, had to get better. But Robin spoke again, told him to finish the mug, that it was all right, so Much drank, and toppled into a quieter darkness.


	17. Chapter 17

**This chapter took the most effort out of them all so far. I couldn't begin to tell you how many tweaks and revisions it went through. Robin's point of view is the most difficult for me; there's so much denial and avoidance tangled up in his thoughts, particularly right now, that I spent half the time staring in exasperation at the computer screen. If the other chapters were the gang good-naturedly hitting their marks, reading their lines, and bearing with the director's dialogue changes and whatnot, this chapter was Robin storming off the set and locking himself in his trailer. The gang and I had to physically pry his hands off the doorframe before we could get him on set, and even then he kept dragging his feet and sulking. He's exhausting, I tell ya. :P**

**And Little John finally gets a turn to narrate as well, hopefully clarifying a few things from the previous chapter. I realized after the fact that Much's point of view makes even less sense without this section alongside it, but combining the two would have made for a ridiculously huge chapter, so I apologize, and hope I didn't perplex any of you too badly… I'll be glad to clarify anything Little John doesn't make clear. **

**ZeDancingHobbit:** Yeah, poor Much just can't catch a break lately… which is kind of my fault and makes me feel like a bad person… but it's for a good cause, really! :P

**DoubleDaggered:** Thank you! Dark though it was, I really enjoyed writing that chapter… At some point I'd like to write more about Robin and Much's time in the Holy Land – we get such tantalizing, tiny little hints about what happened there, and that was five years of their lives!

**EternallyEC:** Thank you so much! Brian Jacques (late author of the Redwall series) used to say to "paint pictures with words, and you won't go far wrong", and that advice has always stuck with me. So that's what I try to do, and I'm so glad you like the result. It's a messy process, believe me. :P And that last moment with Much is probably one of my favorites in that chapter, too. Robin just doesn't understand that Much's world honestly does basically revolve around him. Much has no family, has spent the last ten years of his life serving Robin: at this point, Much hardly has an identity outside of his relation to Robin. And Robin just doesn't realize any of this… ARG. O_o

**MiscPurpleEccentric94:** Confession time – I actually have never watched the third season of Robin Hood. I heard tell of the horrors contained therein, and stopped watching new episodes after "A Good Day to Die". :P I wish there were more stories out there centering on Much, too. He's so easily overlooked or made into the panicky comic relief that it seems like a lot of the writers out there tend to pass him over in favor of the rest of the gang, the poor fellow.

**Quick author's note, and then I'll get out of your way and let you get to reading: The next chapter may be a few days later than usual, since you lot have actually caught up to me in my writing. I have the next chapter drafted and the rest of the tale plotted out, but won't have much spare time to revise over the next week (I finished this one between pumpkin pies and packing). A very happy Thanksgiving to all my readers who celebrate it, and a happy November 22nd to those who don't! ;)**

***Now updated to fix some nitpicky formatting issues and a few typos I spotted after posting (amazing how these things jump out at you AFTER you hit "post", isn't it?). **

* * *

The low fire coughed softly, a little flicker of sparks fluttering up as a branch settled lower into the ashes. John eyed the sleepy flames, but they'd give light and heat enough for a while yet. No sense in making a ruckus adding branches just yet. The large room was almost silent, the stillness broken only by the muted conversation of the fire with the logs, and the soft breathing of his sleeping companions. The fire warded away the chill of the night air, and John had shrugged his long coat off hours ago, bundling it beside him where he now sat with his back against the cavern wall, arms crossed comfortably over his chest as he kept watch.

They'd moved their supplies to this cavern a week or two ago, ahead of the cold breath of autumn, knowing they'd need someplace warmer than a wind-sheltered hollow when the first frosts came. Looking around the shadowed walls now, John allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, remembering Allan's initial complaints, and Robin's reluctance to adopt such a fixed camp. The security of this place was worth Allan accusing him of "making a fuss over it", because while the narrow, crooked opening worked well to keep most of the cold out, it also made this camp more easily defended than any they'd found yet. If need be, John himself could block the entrance bodily, and woe betide anyone foolhardy enough to test their strength against his.

Not that he expected an attack tonight, nor did any of them. Whatever Gisborne might be fuming over and planning in that castle, he had more sense than to invade Sherwood by night and hope to succeed against outlaws who could run the forest's paths in pitch darkness. Dawn and the following day might be a different story, particularly since none of them but Much knew how successful Gisborne's interrogation might have been, but none of them were heartless enough to demand their own answers now. For tonight, at least, they were safe, and such painful questions could wait for brighter hours.

The cave could have held twice their number easily, but everyone had clustered near the fire to sleep, almost within reach of each other. Young Will's thin frame was stretched out between the fire and the faint outline of the entrance, axe alongside his pallet and only a half-second's instinctive reach away. The fire smoothed the angles from his face, his dark hair falling into his eyes, transforming him back into the boy his years made him, rather than the man circumstance had forced him to become. Allan was barely visible, burrowed under his blanket like a fox wrapped in its brush-tail for warmth. The thief had fallen asleep not long after Djaq had finished seeing to his leg, half a mug of her sweet-smelling tea leaving him drooping where he sat. John chuckled gently under his breath as his eyes traveled to the next figure in the circle, remembering how he'd had to practically guide Djaq to her pallet, weariness staggering her usually confident steps. The little Saracen woman had been determined to keep watch over her two patients until dawn broke, but her practicality had finally won out, after John promised to wake her if she was needed. She was cozily tucked in now with her blankets pulled to her chin, sleep-softened face lit in warm, wavering light.

He had spoken truthfully when he had told her he didn't mind sitting up in her place. His mind was still too troubled to find sleep, and while Robin was right in saying they would do better to rest than tire themselves further watching a camp Gisborne had no hope of finding that night, Much was not in a fit state to be left alone tonight. True, Robin sat only a short distance away; he was slumped at the bare edge of the firelight, orange stars flickering in his somber eyes as he kept his own watch over his friend. But there was an absence in Robin's tired gaze, and John felt it best if clearer eyes kept watch as well. Whatever dark paths Robin's mind was wandering, they could hardly be darker than the ordeal Much had just come through, and a return to the camp and safety, to the defending arms of his friends, did not mean a magical restoration to health and wholeness, like in the stories of heroes in days past. They were all-too-human, whatever the village children imagined as they played at being outlaws with stick-swords and toy bows.

Much had hardly stirred in the past several hours, lying well-wrapped in furs and blankets close by the fire. Carrying the younger man had been no hardship, though John had begun to feel the strain in his shoulders by the time he and the gang had arrived at the mouth of the cave. As they walked, Much had gradually slipped from his faint into an exhausted sleep, the need for rest overcoming the pain of his wounds. John hadn't been sure whether to be grateful or worried that Much had hardly made a sound during the long walk, save once when John had stumbled over a branch in the darkness. Even then, as soon as John had regained his footing and murmured, "All right, lad…" Much had drifted off again into whatever dreams had taken him. Unpleasant ones, John would wager reluctantly, distaste twisting in his stomach at the memory.

Djaq had hoped Much might sleep through the setting and binding of his broken hand, but the motion of settling Much on the pallet had half-woken him, despite John's care, and in the end it had taken John, Robin, and Will together to keep the lad from undoing Djaq's work before she'd even finished. Waking from dreams that left his eyes glazed and wide, driven half out of his wits with pain, Much hadn't been able to tell the hands of his friends from those of his tormentors, and struggled against them with pitiable desperation that left even steady Djaq's eyes wide with barely-mastered horror. Their attempts to sooth and calm him were in vain, though Robin didn't leave off trying, his words half-orders and half-pleas, even as he helped to pin Much's shoulders down for Djaq. It cut deep to be the cause of such misery, but the cruel fact was that this could not wait, lest his hand begin to heal as it was and leave Much crippled. And so John had kept his hands firm on Much's shuddering wrist as Djaq coaxed the bones into place, and prayed Much would wake later with no memory of this apparent betrayal.

When at last it was done, and Robin sat with his arm under Much's shoulders, urging him quietly to swallow down the freshly-brewed sleeping draught, Will had sat back and rubbed an unsteady hand down his face, dark eyes haunted as he looked over wordlessly at John. He could only offer the young carpenter a reassuring nod in return, one that felt useless and feigned, but Will had nodded back, drawing a quiet breath that released some of the trembling tension visible in his shoulders. As Djaq's potion began to take hold, the little woman had looked across the fire to Allan, who'd been so quiet during the commotion John had nearly forgotten he was there. Will had helped him to his blankets when they arrived before circling the fire to help them with Much, and the thief had simply stayed put, watching them solemnly with patience John hadn't expected from the man.

"Go on," John had told Djaq, offering a short smile to dispel the doubt from her features. "You see to him, and we'll see to the lad here." Robin had nodded agreement, still mutely supporting Much, though Djaq's draught had sent his manservant into mercifully dreamless sleep several minutes ago, and Djaq had slipped around the fire to crouch beside Allan.

John had sat at enough sickbeds in his years to take over for Djaq, and offered a wry prayer of thanks that Much was truly unaware of his surroundings now. With his hand set, splinted, and carefully bound into immobility with strips of cloth, the next step was to do what they could to rinse away the grime and foulness of the dungeons before the dirt turned Much's smaller wounds bad. This was the first thing Djaq had taught them all, a task she had demanded they all grow accustomed to when dealing with their own injuries, however small. So, dutifully, John set to this task, heating water over the fire and setting a few clean cloths where both he and Djaq could lay hand to them, then rolled up his shirtsleeves and settled at Much's side again. Robin obeyed each of John's murmured instructions without comment, but like John, his jaw had grown tight with anger as they worked. Gisborne's cruelty was unavoidably detailed for them, and told the story of Much's imprisonment more clearly than words ever could.

Dark bruises the size of John's palm, of another man's fist, blossomed haphazardly along Much's sides, spreading across his stomach and chest in blows that would have knocked the breath from a man's body. The skin was dark as a plum over one particular span of Much's ribs, and the lightest brush of John's cloth there made Much's breath catch even in his deep sleep. The purpling half-moons on his back were the wrong shape for a fist, but sharp and angular enough to be the echoes of a man's boot lashing out, angry gashes where the heel cut in, deeper shadows buffeting in to break the bowed shoulders' defense.

Much had been knocked about enough to leave his mouth bloody, a wide swath of skin around his left eye so battered John expected he'd have to make do with half his vision for a handful of days until the bruising eased. While John unwound the damp and stained scarf from Much's left arm, revealing half-scabbed cuts curved like scarlet vines around his forearm, Robin had taken up another clean cloth with his free hand. Slowly, with movements hesitant as the fire-flickers that gave them light, he had begun to wash Much's sleep-slackened features, shying around the muddy bruising, as if hoping to wash away the shadows there along with the blood and grime. Warm water and a friend's hand couldn't clean away the traces left by hunger and deprivation, though, the slight hollowing they'd seen all too often in the faces of families under the Sheriff's rule. Then there were the rough scrapes ringing Much's wrists, no doubt from struggling against rope or shackles, and whatever harm their unskilled eyes could not see, all adding up into the sad mess Much was left in. He looked bad, and would probably feel worse when he woke, but he would live. He wouldn't be on his feet for another week at the least, most likely, and wouldn't be fit for a mission until long after that, but he would certainly pull through, out of sheer pluck and determination if nothing else.

Robin's distress, then, had seemed still further out of place, and John had cast a questioning eye toward the leader of their little band. Were it not for the gnawing, active worry in the archer's keen eyes, his expression would have better fit a man tending to the body of a fallen comrade. Now, as that same bleak emotion wavered on Robin's face several long paces away where he sat watching Much sleep, John could venture a guess as to why he looked so stricken.

Like all of them, Robin knew this was no game, that baiting and thwarting the Sheriff came with enormous risk and a heavy price for failure. After losing both parents when he was hardly of age, after five years fighting in the Holy Land, the lad knew better than many the reality of death and how fiercely and suddenly it could steal you from the world. But there was some part of Robin, a child-like, stubbornly innocent core to the young man that still believed good would always win in the end, life and love would triumph, and that somehow death couldn't really touch him. What some would call the arrogance of youth, Robin had fashioned into a banner and led the charge under its bold colors, and until today, that emblem had not failed him. Not until Death had leaned, leering, over the threshold of Robin's home and left Much behind half-broken as it departed, the one steady point in Robin's life lying in frightening fragility at his feet.

No wonder the landless lord looked like a small child, wouldn't leave Much's side. He had kept up the façade of stern supervision, had watched Djaq's every move as she worked, but every now and then the mask slipped and John could see the fear glittering through. Robin was scared, looking to Djaq and even John for assurance the same way John's own boy used to look up at him, at Alice, when thunder shook the thin walls of their home.

He wanted to know things would come out all right, wordlessly begging to hear those words from someone, but John wasn't the one to say them. There were older wounds and deeper scars here than the ones that would fade into pale memories on Much's skin. So John held his silence and Robin held his, which was for the best: a lot could be said in silence, and Robin, sitting with his eyes fixed on Much's sleeping form, had the look of a man afraid to move lest the words pour out of him.

* * *

Robin gusted out a sigh and scrubbed the hair from his eyes. He should sleep, he knew. His eyes felt rough and heavy in their sockets, an invisible weight pressing him over like an old man where he sat. The others were all asleep, had dropped off an hour or more ago. Even Little John sagged gently where he sat against the wall, arms crossed and bearded chin to his chest. The last few days had been hard on them all, and the gang had earned this night of unguarded rest. Another few minutes, perhaps, and then he would stand, would wake Djaq for her turn, retreat to his own blankets and sleep. But not yet. Something held him transfixed where he sat, some power in the shadows above him pinning him there. He thought he could feel the hollow ache in his chest where the rod had passed through, leaving him immobile like the jeweled beetles and drab moths he'd once seen fixed against smooth wood in a trader's wagon – helpless victims to the studies of scholars whispering over their dried heads. His limbs held no more volition than those hapless insects' had as his mind carried out its observations against his will, each passing minute releasing another heavy drop into the pool of self-recrimination swelling in his chest.

_Mea culpa_.

The fault is mine.

Two elegant Latin words and the thought was finished, complete. Far too short a phrase for everything it meant. _Mea culpa_. The fault is mine. I bear the responsibility. I have caused this.

Much was asleep now, the tension drained from his battered features for the first time in that long afternoon and evening, but each ripple of shadow and firelight mimicked the harsher, desperate movements from a few hours ago. The memory physically hurt, the sharp edges slicing as it forced its way to the forefront of his mind, and he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying in vain to blot it out.

He'd helped tend the wounded on the battlefield before, held down soldiers lost in a world of their own pain, heard their groans, heard their screams when agony broke their self-restraint. That hadn't been the same, had never left him shaken so badly he didn't dare stand, had tonight left him sitting there holding Much until his heart stopped pounding. Much's ribs hadn't let him scream, had stifled him to breathless cries that caused as much pain as they would have relieved. And Robin's fellow Crusaders had cursed, had fought restraining hands simply because the pain wouldn't let them be still; they hadn't struggled to shield their faces from blows that weren't falling, hadn't kept shaking their heads in weak refusal even after their strength had given out.

He lifted his head wearily, vision blurred from the pressure of his hands. The shadows exaggerated the hollows under the sleeping man's eyes, stroked gray fingers along his cheeks and temples. Those same shadows rested more thickly than usual on Robin's own features, seemed to drag at his eyelids, his face, his whole head. Among all the sleepless nights and grueling days between them, only once could he recall Much ever looked so drained. The memory was a uneasy one, of drifting up from scorching nightmares and gouging pain in his side to feel a damp cloth sliding across his face, so wonderfully cool he could have wept, to see Much's haggard features above him, a slight roughness in the voice that asked him to sleep, to please get better so they could go home and see Marian.

There was a vital difference between the vigil Much had made and the one Robin kept now, though, a difference that banished any hope of sleep with this slowly pulsing sorrow that felt like mourning. He had been wounded in defense of the King, fulfilling his vow as a member of the Royal Guard, but Much had been captured, had been _tortured_, not as a soldier with all the oaths and knowledge of what they might demand, but as a friend, simply as Much.

_Mea culpa_, a never-ending echo in the darkness.

Gisborne had used Much to reach Robin Hood, used him to reach his goal like a crudely-fashioned tool, discarded when its usefulness had ended. And Much suffered for Robin's sake, forced to choose between betraying his master and submitting to Gisborne's calculated cruelty. And because Much was Much, he had suffered without relief, because tactics and deceit had no home in his honest mind, and where another might have played for time, set the lieutenant on the wrong scent, there was no doubt in Robin's mind that Much had simply shut up, as he'd so often been ordered, and waited for Robin to come. Every long hour had been endured for love of Robin, and he could feel dark regret sinking into his bones, staining them, filling up the spaces in his chest, behind his eyes, because there should have been some way to reach Much sooner, to keep all this from happening. He and Will should have burst through the dungeon doors that same night, not days later. He should have met the gang at a triumphant stride with Much's relieved voice filling the air, not sitting helplessly in the dark with Much in his arms too weak to do more than breathe.

Much wouldn't die. Djaq would see to that, and whatever God still cared to look down on them could not allow it. If such a deity chose to look the other way, then Robin would see to it himself that Much did not leave this earth. But the physical mending of bruises, of seeing the bones knit together… all that was only part of the wound caused here, and Robin was no healer. He was a soldier, an undoer of life. Here in the darkness, silently in the shadows of his weary heart, he could admit that he had struck blows against his friend before today, done harm even as he told himself his actions would leave no mark.

He remembered careless jabs and gouges with the tip of a dagger, accumulated over the past months since they'd returned to find their home usurped, dealt out in moments when Robin was simply too tired to restrain the sarcasm in his voice, when he told himself Much just needed to learn how to take a joke, when he'd been too busy being a leader to be a friend as well.

And Much had always returned from those things, sighing or sullen or raising his eyes to Heaven, but at Robin's side and ready for a new day, despite whatever invisible wounds might still have been lingering. Robin knew the wounds were there, though admitting that truth felt like carving a piece from his own heart – undeniably there and healing less quickly than he always told himself as he watched the hurt confusion on Much's face eventually disappear under determined loyalty.

There were times he'd used Much, yes, but in the way a drowning man used any foothold to push his face above the water for another gasp of air. Because Much would let him, would always come back, was always standing at Robin's shoulder when the darkness closed in, when Robin had to act, shout, do something to push it back, even if it meant lashing out, spitting poison at those around him so the poison wouldn't fill his veins entirely and drown him. And Much would always be startled or offended or try to pretend he hadn't noticed, and then he'd fall back into step with Robin, there and steady and dependable.

But this time, Much hadn't come back.

This time Much was quiet, was still, was everything that Much wasn't supposed to be, and despite Djaq's tired, reassuring smile, and the slow relaxation taking over Little John's muscled form, Robin couldn't subdue the fear that he'd pushed too far, that he'd risked too much, that he'd thrown the dice one time too many and only just now seen his friend's life lying among the objects thrown cheerfully into the pot.

A ripple of movement not caused by the firelight snapped his attention back to Much, up from the miserable doze he'd been sinking into. Even as he looked up and focused on Much's face, the slight frown was easing, but it returned a moment later, accompanied by the soft sound of Much's fingers brushing against the furs as they curled into a loose fist. A part of Robin wanted to rise and force himself into sleep, to leave the cave entirely, while the rest of him dropped his face wearily into his hands and cursed against his palms, because they had earned this peace, paid for it with blood and tears and whatever wrung from hearts that were beside themselves with worry. After ten years, half of that spent in the same tent or around the same fire, Robin could tell when Much's dreams had turned bad, just as he knew Much could tell the other way, and he didn't have the strength for this tonight.

They had never discussed those terrible, sand-filled dreams, not beyond the few times Much had broached the subject with hesitant words that never led anywhere except into uncomfortable silence when Robin didn't reply. At first, though, Robin had woken in the middle of his own nightmares to find Much's hand on his shoulder, or to see Much's wide, worried eyes watching him over the fire, ready to call his name again. A few times, Robin had done the same for Much, interrupting the dreams before they could run their course. The raw emotion in the other man's face was too much, though, too vivid a reflection of the horror he spent so much time forcing down, pushing away, and he told himself Much was a grown man, that he could deal with his own nightmares. One night after surfacing from that same black dream of defending the King, he had simply told Much to leave him be. If Robin dreamed of the Holy Land, so be it – they were only memories, but he would face them alone, fight them down and master himself. Eventually, Much had stopped trying to talk about the dreams too, apparently accepting that Robin either couldn't or wouldn't deal with Much's nightmares as well as his own, and for long months they had dreamt, woken, and coped privately.

Stuttering movement behind Much's bruised eyelids and a restless quickening of his breathing stole away any choice Robin might have had, set his stomach roiling. He owed his friend this, owed him his life and more; how could he hope to repay such a debt if he couldn't find the courage in himself to face another man's bad dream? Such a small thing, to fend off the nightmares for this one night, so Much could rest. Much had given up far more in the past three days than it would cost Robin to do this one thing.

He reached out for Much's shoulder, fighting against the leaden reluctance in his arm, as if touching Much right now could transfer some oily residue of dream and memory to him, slip a key into the locks that shut away the claws of his own demons. Grounding himself in the texture of the clean, worn linen (Much's other shirt had been past saving, though he'd likely complain over its loss when he woke, as he'd only just finished mending it), Robin let his hand rest there for a moment. His voice sounded strangely small as he murmured Much's name, but the lines slowly faded from the sleeping man's face, as if that were all it took. If it were truly that simple….

Then Much stirred again, a faint moan whispering in the back of his throat.

"Much," Robin repeated, swallowing back the childish fear that rose in his chest, but Much didn't respond this time, and Robin gave the taut shoulder under his hand a gentle shake. "Much, wake up." A moment later he hastily withdrew his hand as Much's eyes flew open, as he jerked back instinctively against his blankets while his wide gaze swept the dark ceiling. Without looking to his right, Much wouldn't catch sight of him there in the shadows at all, which was fine; Much needn't know Robin had woken him. He'd give his friend room to compose himself, handle the aftermath of the nightmare in his own way.

Robin watched the nauseatingly familiar disorientation crawl across Much's pained features, followed by a strained sigh when his fist clenched against fire-warmed furs, not dungeon stone or sand that belonged an ocean away. That same hand wavered up to cover his face a moment later, the first step in a pattern Robin knew far too well. Long, long moments of simply breathing while your heart tried to hammer through your chest. The collision of lingering fear and sudden relief that took desperate effort to weather without letting tears escape. He waited for Much to breathe more easily, to wipe angrily at his eyes, sniff once or twice, and settle eventually into his blankets again, like always. He waited, but Much's hand didn't leave his face, and his breaths still came in thick gasps; what little of Much's face Robin could see was tight and trembling, and it was suddenly painfully clear that Much wasn't going to shake this off so easily. If he were honest with himself, Robin knew it was unfair to hope that Much would deal with this trial like always, as if this were any other night, that he would miraculously master himself and find sleep again, and let Robin stay safely in the shadows. It was unfair, and it was cruel. This was the least he could do, he told himself again firmly, and leaned a bit closer, deliberately shifting the drifted leaves.

He could think of no less startling way to announce his presence, but Much still jolted, gulping a deep breath that pinched his face with pain as his eyes landed on Robin. And while Robin was prepared for the brief flash of fear on Much's face, and the surge of relief that followed, he didn't expect the wash of something like horror that erased the relief, that sank a cold, heavy weight into the pit of his stomach. Much's slow, fumbling attempt to erase his tears, whispering barely audible apologies, sent another _mea culpa_ ghosting through Robin's mind, brushing his face with a dark wingtip.

Before Robin could piece together the right words, Much spoke, his voice so fractured it sounded as if it were held together by determination alone.

"I didn't mean to… to wake anyone. I'm sorry. I'm all right."

Everything in Much's voice, his posture, the desperate way his eyes sought strength from the walls of the cave showed his last words to be a lie, and Much had always been a terrible liar anyway. The fact that he still bothered to try, though, that he felt he needed to, felt Robin would expect him to after all this…

"Don't," Robin said, the ache roiling like a living thing in his chest. The word came out as more of an order than he'd meant, and he took a quick breath past the knotted regret in his throat to try again, to forestall the disappointment that threatened to bring down the last remnants of Much's composure. "You don't have to-" But the words weren't there when he reached for them, his silver tongue thick as lead, sorrow and guilt and the sleek feathers of _mea culpa_ blurring his vision.

So instead Robin reached for the trembling hand and bruised shoulders and pulled Much up, gathered him close against his chest. The wrenched-tight shoulders against his arm told Robin that he'd managed to hurt his friend again, but he didn't know what else to do, now that words had failed him and he had almost failed Much.

But then Much's head tipped heavily into his chest, his hitching sigh warm against Robin's tunic before a small sob fought free, muffled behind Much's hand, and Robin knew he'd done the right thing. He tightened the embrace when he felt the first shuddering tears take hold, when Much's hand dropped to press tight against his bandaged ribs.

All Robin's self-control was barely enough to keep him from letting his own agitation show, to keep him from shrinking back from the malicious memories that seemed to ride on each shaky breath and shed tear. He could imagine too clearly what the other man was seeing and remembering right now: the sandy mounds that swallowed names and bodies like they had never been, those moments shorter than a breath where chance had chosen between him and another, the creeping nausea as the distant laments slowly turned the Saracen enemy into people who could love and mourn. Dizzying heat, the taste of blood and sweat and grit in his teeth. Robin could feel his own demons lurking at the corners of his vision, waiting to take him. So he didn't move his gaze from the sight of his gang nestled safely in their blankets, from the sleepy fire, letting the light burn afterimages into his vision until the memories were buried in their glow, distantly aware that his expression was haunted enough to terrify any of them if they woke.

"It's all right," he said, and they were the most useless words, laughable when everything was patently, painfully _not_ all right. The trembling running through the hunched frame in his arms told Robin a few of these tears sprang from the belated reaction to his rescue, the knowledge that he was safe, that he'd come through it alive, and Robin rested his jaw against the disheveled head, murmuring, "I'm so sorry, Much…"

All was hushed as he whispered apologies into the night air and Much's tears left a warm patch against his heart, whispered "I'm sorry" more times than he'd spoken those words in his life. Those two words throbbed in tandem with the slowly growing ache in his throat that threatened to reach to his eyes and the faint burn there, push him to the edge of composure and over, and he couldn't let that happen, not yet, not right now. Leave the demons in their cages, let them writhe in the prison of his heart, and let him try to drown them out with his own murmuring, the same two words repeated like a rosary that said he was sorry Much had to bear this, sorry he hadn't gotten there sooner, sorry because he couldn't make himself believe that he deserved the kind of loyalty that lay behind Much's wounds. He apologized for everything, while Much cried for everything and tried to breathe, face pressed into Robin's chest.

In the end, either the pain of his injuries or a simple dearth of tears left Much quiet, slumped inside the fence of Robin's arms. Robin himself felt raw, drained, but for now, at least, the dark-feathered whisper of regret had gone and left them in peace.

"'M'sorry," came the almost-inaudible whisper, and Robin simply replied, "Don't be," not trusting his voice any further.

Much made no move to sit back or return to his blankets and attempt to find sleep again, so Robin stayed as he was, listening to the pained breaths slow and even out for the second time in that long evening. For tonight, he could give Much this, shoulder some of the burden instead of sloughing it off for Much to bear alone.

* * *

Across the low fire, a small smile lifted the corner of John Little's mouth as he settled his broad shoulders more comfortably against the cave wall, and allowed sleep to find him at last.


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you all for your patience! I'll try to have the next chapter up in a week, but may (read: probably will) have to beg your indulgence again, depending on how smoothly the writing goes.**

**This chapter is dedicated to SleepingwithinWater, whose suggestion of a nice moment between Allan and Much took on a life of its own and morphed into this whole chapter. ^_^**

**Prats 'R' Us: **Thank you so much! While it's true Robin was thinking of himself in the last chapter, he still chose to stay and try to offer Much some comfort, which means a lot when it comes to our dear archer. He's notorious for wiggling free of situations that don't suit him or that make him uncomfortable, but this time Robin went through the motions and actions of being there for Much, even if his attention was focused more on himself and maintaining his own control at the time. Love's a verb – actually doing it is more important than feeling like doing it sometimes. :)

"…the picture of John being a good mother to the outlaws." I love that phrase so much – he definitely has a mother-hennish streak, though he'd probably deny it.

**Desi Jo: **Thank you! Writing Robin's half of that chapter was far more difficult than I expected, so it's a relief to hear that it sounded right to you! Hearing so much amazing feedback from all of you makes even the rough writing patches fun. My usual beta is currently frolicking deep in the Avengers fandom, so you all are the first to let me know what works and what doesn't – your comments are always appreciated! I'm always open to ideas or constructive criticism, too, if anything catches your eye or comes to mind. :)

**Wanderingidealism:** There have been so many sad Much moments in this story so far… Things are brightening, though – hopefully this next chapter will dry your tears and cheer you a bit. :)

**As things stand right now, there are only about two chapters left, though knowing me, another rogue one may turn up as I write. And may I just say that you are all truly wonderful for sticking with this story and reviewing so faithfully – I'm feeling spoiled, gosh darn it. ^_^**

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Much woke slowly, sluggishly. It was so, so tempting to sink back into the deep waves of sleep and just stay there, where nothing hurt, nothing threatened…. If he didn't open his eyes, maybe the world would stay exactly as it was, warm and dark and comforting. Maybe he would eventually wake up to hear the rest of the gang talking and grumbling over breakfast not being ready yet. If he didn't open his eyes, he wouldn't blink sleep away and find bars reaching down from the ceiling like teeth closing him inside stone jaws. This was bearable, just now. Opening his eyes to find the same stinking cell shrinking around him when he remembered so vividly stumbling along with Robin's arm around him, remembered hoofbeats and hope and a night sky he hadn't believed he'd see again… Waking to find that had all been a dream might just be the end of him.

For another long moment, the world was merciful and remained as it was, though awareness pressed persistently inward, like a beetle boring through a fallen tree. If he didn't open his eyes, he wouldn't see the cell bars that might be there, but he would still hear the door groan open, hear the determined tread of Gisborne's boots. He would have some warning, at least. Would hear but not see… Suddenly leaving his eyes shut felt no better than being blind, and he dragged his heavy eyelids upward, bracing himself.

The sight of uneven stone arcing up in firelight met his bleary eyes, shadows stabbing inward against the wavering light, and his heart clenched for one icy, reeling moment. But the air around him carried the scent of fallen leaves and damp earth, and he wasn't cold anymore… He had almost forgotten the bliss of being warm, of not having to fight to keep his limbs from betraying him by shivering, which only made everything hurt so much worse. Blankets rested across his legs and chest, wrapped him in comfortable confinement, and cushioned his aching head as he turned to find the source of the firelight somewhere to his left.

A campfire burned low nearby, crackling contentedly and breathing out blessed heat, and Much closed his eyes again, ready to take back every harsh word he'd ever spoken about their cave-camp. Right now, the brief blurry sight of those craggy walls and ceiling that had once felt so oppressive meant he was safe, that he was far from Nottingham, and that simple fact was enough to make him want to weep for sheer relief. His eyes already felt strangely swollen and tired, though, a different sensation blending with the deep pain around his left eye that was slowly reasserting itself. It felt almost as if he'd been weeping already, and for a minute or two, he simply lay there in the quiet and couldn't remember. Then memory tumbled back into place, and Much wanted to hide his face, or sink into the ground, or maybe both at once.

He'd dreamed of the Holy Land again, of Acre, and woken Robin with his nightmare like a child. He'd tried so hard in the past months to keep those awful dreams to himself, to spare Robin the reminder, since Robin hated even the mention of them. Robin still had the nightmares too, Much knew. But Robin always shook them off, let the haunted expression melt away or soak down into his bones, would shrug off Much's concern and walk on as if the blow had never been struck. And maybe that made Robin's way better, made him stronger, but Much had been so, so tired, and remembered thinking that this couldn't be fair, though that thought skirted dangerously close to blasphemy. Yes, he would atone for his deeds in the Holy Land for the rest of his life – that was as it should be, as God willed – but did it have to be tonight, after everything else? Didn't any of that count at all?

When he'd seen Robin sitting there in the shadows beside him, he'd instinctively tried to apologize, babbled something he couldn't remember, and just attempted to keep himself from unraveling until Robin had gone. But this time Robin hadn't left, hadn't gone stony and pretended he'd seen nothing. Instead he'd reached out and held Much steady as he fell apart, which was a mercy, because Much couldn't reach anymore, could only let the world batter him and hope someone would reach out too and find him. He knew the dreams were his penance, but surely God wouldn't mind someone helping him with it, just this once. He'd let the other man help Him carry His cross, hadn't He? Maybe the Lord knew what it felt like to be so weary and broken, strange as the thought was.

The fire gave an abrupt hiss as it devoured another branch, and the near-complete silence suddenly struck Much as peculiar. Even at night there was some sound: the deep rumble of Little John's snoring (which he vehemently denied), Allan mumbling in his sleep, something. Right now, though, there was just him and the fire and no sense of time or the day, and Much suddenly wanted to see someone else urgently, badly enough that he pushed himself up on one elbow before he thought about what he was doing.

He thought he heard himself cry out, but that didn't seem possible with his jaw clenched this tightly. The thought flickered through his mind that he'd been stabbed, but the common sense that had abandoned him a moment ago reminded him that he had a broken rib, that he was hurt worse than he'd ever been before, and that maybe he should just lie very still and work on breathing right now. It took more effort than he remembered, and pulsed new pain through his chest relentlessly; it couldn't possibly be helping, he decided dimly, and was half-considering holding his breath until it all stopped hurting so miserably, but a voice somewhere nearby was telling him to take it easy, to take short breaths, to come on and open his eyes, and after what felt like forever, Much managed to obey, to see Allan A Dale's brows bent down in concern that eased somewhat as Much slowly regained control of his breathing.

"There you go," the other man said, one of his typical half-grins broadening his words. A slight echo chased his voice around the cave, a hollow sound. "Scared me, mate. Just take it easy, a'right?"

While part of Much was grateful to have anyone there, the rest of him couldn't help him shutting his eyes wearily. Of course it would be Allan. Much cared about the whole gang, certainly – they were his friends, slowly becoming brothers in arms – but he and Allan simply didn't get on well. On the rare occasions when the man wasn't stirring up trouble or joking at Much's expense, they were still constantly disagreeing and shooting each other wary looks. He knew it was useless, but he half-wished anybody else were there, someone he didn't have to worry might bring this up again later when he didn't expect it.

When Much carefully turned to look to his right, muscles protesting even that small movement, the lanky thief was settling more comfortably onto the ground, stretching one leg out with a decidedly pained grimace. Catching Much watching, Allan grumbled, "If Djaq sets into me when she gets back, I'm blamin' you. Tells me stay put, don't walk on it, don't even think about it, then they all up an' leave." Allan's scoff was disbelieving as he shook his head in the direction of the cave entrance. "Leavin' us invalids to our bed rest." Much's gaze trailed down to the neat bandage wrapped around Allan's lower leg. He faintly remembered Robin or Djaq or someone saying something about Allan being hurt last night, but just thinking took effort right now, with his chest threatening more agony with each careful breath, and his right hand beginning to send shivers of warning pain up his arm. He hadn't dared look at his hand yet, though he could feel the wooden splints and cloth binding it, presumably holding the bone in place, keeping anything from shifting. For an instant, he remembered the vice-grip of Gisborne's hands, and shut his eyes for a long moment against the sickening chill that sank through him.

Then Allan's voice rang around the cave again, setting off echoes, as if nothing was wrong, as if they were just sitting and having a casual chat.

"I mean, what am I supposed to do? Hop around on one leg? Walk on my hands like a trained bear?" Another scoff as he shifted his bandaged leg a few wary inches. "Might as well be one, some days." Another tremor of discomfort ran through Much's limbs, every bruise and strained muscle making its presence felt, and he made a conscious choice not to sigh when Allan only paused for a moment before rambling on. Sighing would hurt far more than the mild confusion Allan's words conjured in him. So he just lay there and listened as Allan decided aloud that they were really more like one of those groups of traveling entertainers than the bold band of freedom fighters everyone seemed to think they were.

"You've seen 'em, right?" he asked, glancing down at Much, pointed features glazed orange in the firelight. "Jugglers comin' through town, folks who can do all these tricks, amazin' stuff. Amazing. I mean, I saw a fellow once who bet anybody they couldn't beat 'im in a contest of strength. Tiny little chap, no bigger'n Djaq, an' here he is puttin' all the farmers to shame in front of their wives. This one blacksmith wouldn't give up though, just kept haulin' at the cart – mind you, stacked higher than a man's height with kindling… No, it was barrels of ale, that's right – kept draggin' and blowin' like a dyin' plowhorse until his mates had to come carry him off." A delighted chuckle. "Now, if we'd had John there, I'd have made twice what I lost bettin' on that poor beggar. Would've shown 'im up in a minute flat, put 'im out of a job.

"So," Allan went on, voice rising decisively, "John's our strongman, then. Good start. These days, though, you've gotta draw in the wives and kids, what with half the shire's men off diggin' the Sheriff's ditches. Give 'em a show, you know? That's where Will comes in." He could hardly have sounded more focused if he were actually planning to turn from outlawry to this more lucrative calling. The idea was ridiculous, not least because he seemed to be laboring under the assumption that the whole gang would merrily follow where he led. Much looked over again in time to see Allan's mouth quirk up as he swung a welcoming arm toward the invisible crowd of onlookers. "Hits his mark every time! You, milady, will you come help the young man out? Excellent, right here, stand right here." Soft whistles accompanied Allan miming a flick of the wrist, then an overhand throw, sending knives or hatchets flying through the air. "Oh, and there you have it, ladies and gents! Within an inch of her lovely self, but not a hair on her head touched!"

It was all too easy to picture Allan talking up a storm, luring the crowd in with a broad smile and his quicksilver words, even if the image of Will flinging weapons around willy-nilly just to put on a show was unlikely, to say the least. Much felt the ghost of a smile pull at his lips, but didn't have the energy to work up a real one. The stabbing pain in his side had faded to a dull pounding that kept time with his heart, but he still felt limp and miserable. The ache in his hand had traveled by degrees up his arm nearly to the elbow, and whatever Djaq had given him for the pain had most definitely run its course. She had given him something, or someone had, he remembered, though the rest of that memory was a dark place he didn't care to explore further. One minute at a time, and he was all right. Allan had said the others were coming back soon, hadn't he? One minute and they'd be back. One more minute. If he kept telling himself that, eventually it'd be true.

Allan was sitting back, cheery grin faded to tight-lipped silence as he kneaded gingerly at his leg. His long fingers brushed the torn edge of the bandage, forward and back, like a restless tide. It didn't look like the movement was helping, if the set of the thief's jaw was anything to go by.

The distant gaze at the stone wall suddenly became a searching glance directed at Much's tired face, and with no more warning than that, Allan turned back to the wall where his assembled villagers waited, and announced, "But – if that don't suit your fancy, have a look here: a wild Saracen, captured in the sandy wastes of the Holy Land!" His wide gesture toward the back of the cave displayed a torch wedged between the rocks and nothing more fascinating than a few sacks of grain or vegetables, if Much remembered correctly. But Allan shied back theatrically at some violent motion or sound from the caged Saracen, offering the crowd a sympathetic grimace. "Not too close, now. Full of spirit, she is, but those chains'll hold, trust me on that." He tossed a cheeky wink to someone in the crowd, and Much felt his eyes widen when he realized Allan meant this to be Djaq's part in their imaginary circus. Unbelievable. Even for Allan, this was going too far. The very idea of Djaq taking that role, the sheer ignorance in the thief's words, was almost enough to make Much object aloud. Besides, who could ever mistake their Djaq for one of the bloodthirsty savages most Englishmen imagined Saracens to be? Not that she couldn't be fierce, though; Allan would change his tune pretty quickly if she ever heard a whisper of what he was going on about right now.

His disapproval must have shown on his face, because Allan tilted his head in a shrug, apparently conceding the point.

"Yeah, maybe not. Her loss, though – that sort of show, the exotic stuff…" He tutted, shaking his head, probably at the loss of money from his imaginary crowd.

Despite how sore and weak he felt, despite the silly, rambling nature of their conversation (if you could call it that, when it was all Allan talking and him listening), the ridiculous picture the other man was painting was intriguing. Allan had accounted for half the gang already, almost everyone. Only him and Robin were left, and while Much would far rather be standing safely in the appreciative audience, well away from Will's flying hatchets and the trouncing Allan would no doubt be receiving from Djaq shortly, he couldn't help feeling faintly curious as to where Allan would stick him in their troupe. A crowd would get hungry standing there all day; maybe he could set up shop nearby, just wheel up a cart with pastries and meat pies. Give them all something healthier to do than stand around letting Allan make Will throw weapons at them.

Allan had gone quiet, tapping his fingers against the ground and frowning.

"Robin…" he mused. "See, that's gonna take some thought, there, 'cause you can't just…" He chewed his thumbnail, peering at the craggy ceiling in a show of deep thought before holding up his hand for silence – not that Much was making any noise, apart from breathing, which he wasn't about to stop on Allan's account – and saying, "The man with a bow that never misses." Much blinked at the plain statement, and Allan rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Well, we'd give it some color, make it sound like you'd want to spend your coins on it. Say he got it blessed by some hermit up in the hills, some abbey… Doesn't matter which – pick a name, make one up. Let 'im show off, blindfold 'im an' let 'im shoot apples off the kids' heads, all that. Can't go too long, though, or people start askin' smart questions, wantin' to try a shot themselves…" He waved his hand dismissively, discarding the idea and the extra work it would bring.

Only him left. And Allan, maybe… he was supposedly already the trained bear, but Much couldn't imagine a trained bear that was also allowed to be the master of the show, which Allan certainly seemed to think he was.

"Last, but definitely not least," Allan declared dramatically, pausing to turn a merry grin down on Much, "every proper group of entertainers has… their very own fool."

The expectant expression remained poised on Allan's face as Much's tired mind caught up with the words, and his mouth opened in useless disbelief.

He should have known. Every single time…

Allan's expression was nothing short of delighted, as if he expected Much to clap his hands and cheer over his wonderful place in the show.

"Poor man's jester, like," he continued, apparently deciding that Much hadn't understood him. "You know, somebody with a painted-up face throwin' somersaults an' givin' the other players grief until they knock 'im down, everybody claps…." Allan smirked at his own explanation, apparently oblivious to the undisguised disappointment on Much's face. He should have known better than to think Allan wasn't going to turn this all into a chance to mock him, now that he couldn't get up and leave. He should have expected something like this, but he was so sick of being taken in all the time…

And for just a moment, the unending throbbing in his head and the weariness dragging at his bones didn't matter. The simple act of speaking hurt, but after everything that had happened, after sitting in the dark thinking he would never see the gang again, he hadn't come out of it alive just to lie there and keep quiet while Allan mocked him.

"'M'not a fool," he rasped, filling his lopsided glare with the vehemence his voice lacked.

Allan peered at him in mock-surprise, and Much saw the other man switch tactics before he'd even opened his mouth.

"Oh, come on. You've got the face for it already!" Before Much could gather himself to hotly deny that accusation, Allan had leaned forward to trace a lazy circle in the air a foot above his face. "Nice touch, just the one eye there. Lovely shade of violet." A slanting swing of his fingers that made Much blink and indicated the stiff, aching bruising along his jaw. "Dunno if I'd have gone with that color right there, though. I mean, what is that? Is it black, blue? I see, what, touch of green there on the side? If you can't decide, mate, you don't just mix 'em all up."

If he hadn't been so confused at Allan's bizarre behavior, Much would have been trembling with indignation. As it was, he could feel the blood rush to his face, which only made the bruises Allan had so kindly described throb all the worse. Flinging the painful consequences to the wind, Much repeated, "Not a fool… And you're not… not a bear, either."

"Oh?" A politely interested quirk of his eyebrow, inviting, challenging.

"No. Better one. Man that never… never shut up."

It was a poor retort, Much knew, and given enough time he could have come up with something far more satisfying, something to knock that insufferable smirk off the other man's face. As it was, he braced himself for some sort of retribution, another crack at him, but instead Much saw a glint of something strangely like triumph flash in Allan's eye before the lanky man sat back and shot a glare down at Much.

"Oh, that's nice. Really. You want to talk about somethin' else, just say so, mate."

And that was it. An injured sniff, a couple seconds of blessed silence, and then Allan was off again, something about how Much ought to be thanking him, not insulting him. Much barely heard a word of it, still marveling over the fact that he might have just won an argument with Allan, for once in his life. Allan had hardly replied, just backed down and changed the subject, which constituted a minor miracle in itself.

So when he heard Allan say he'd single-handedly fended off Gisborne's men last night, all fifty of them, Much just gave him a half-hearted, knowing glare, too tired and warm to care why the corners of Allan's mouth curled up at that.

"Well… John might've helped a bit." Much gave an unimpressed "hmm" to that, prompting Allan to roll his eyes and add, "Fine! And Djaq. Satisfied?" He wasn't, and managed to narrow his eyes just a bit despite the steady pounding in his skull, enough to let Allan know he wasn't fooling anybody. The other man cast his eyes to the cave walls, one hand hovering in mid-air as if appealing to a higher power for help.

"I swear! On me mother's sainted soul, I must've fought off twenty of those brutes at least before I even made it up the hill, and there was another fifty lyin' in wait for me there." That his mother was a saint, Much could easily believe. And from the past months spent living around Allan, not to mention the chaotic day or two surrounding Tom A Dale's time with the gang, Much would venture to say that raising those two ruffians had probably also driven their sainted mother to an early grave.

The rest of it was a boldfaced lie, of course. Learning to count higher than he had fingers hadn't been important for a miller's son, the same way he knew letters only well enough to pick out a single mark here and there. But if you started with I-swear-it-was-fifty and ended with on-my-mother's-soul-it-was-fifty-and-twenty, that came out to Allan up to his usual exaggeration.

But based on the quick glance Allan cast him and the way the half-smile never quite left the other man's face, Allan already knew that Much wasn't falling for his nonsense, and he didn't seem to care. He just leaned back on his hands and carried on, voice traveling along the cave walls, filling the wide space and reminding Much of the storyteller who'd once come to Locksley Manor during the Christmas festivities. He'd sung ballads and made the ladies laugh with his jokes, but the best part had been the tales he told as the night deepened and the fire sank in the hearth. Every word had rung out or swooped low along the floorboards, tracing pictures in the smoky air and leaving Much transfixed, so distracted he had nearly poured wine down Robin's front instead of into his goblet. Much had to admit this at least: Allan A Dale could tell a story, just so long as you didn't mind how much truth you ended up with.

Much worked the blanket a little higher with his good hand, so the cloth tucked comfortably under his chin, and let his aching eyes close while Djaq shrieked Saracen war cries and frightened a dozen men into flight on the spot, and Little John picked men up bodily and flung them yards without batting an eye. The battle raged on ever more spectacularly, and the sheer absurdity of it all was somehow soothing. Allan felled scores of enemies with perfect shot after shot, probably thanks to his blessed bow that couldn't miss, and cut through the enemy with Robin's Saracen blade using intricate moves more likely to deprive him of a limb than to harm his opponents. He overcame those odds, miraculously, and was in possession of all his limbs when he confronted Gisborne in a dizzying bout of swordplay. Allan's story-Gisborne raged and threatened, but was no match for the runaway imagination of Allan A Dale, who quickly gained the upper hand and finally sent his enemy's sword spinning out of reach.

With Gisborne on his knees, Saracen blade at the defeated lieutenant's throat, Allan was about to declare victory when – what's that? A hidden archer in the branches overhead; he looses a single arrow at the unwary figure below that sends him to his knees, a black-feathered arrow sunk deep into his leg. Gisborne makes a desperate lunge for the wounded outlaw's sword, and they struggle, but Gisborne is quicker –

The dramatic pause slowly lengthened into outright silence, and finally curiosity forced Much's eyes open again. Allan was still sitting there, one hand absently smoothing the bandage around his leg, staring sightlessly at the cave wall, brows drawn up plaintively as if he could still see the tragedy about to unfold in front of him. Either he'd actually worked himself up to tears with his own storytelling, or he was stuck, trying to decide how to explain away the fact that he'd supposedly been killed in his duel with Gisborne last night. A snort of laughter escaped Much's throat, a brief moment of humor that felt wonderful, until all the muscles and aches that had been slowly relaxing while Allan talked seized up in unison around that innocent puff of air.

He wasn't about to let the groan pressing behind his lips escape, not in front of Allan, but it was a very near thing. Between gasps, colorful lights swimming behind his eyelids, Much heard Allan shift closer, but he must have realized there wasn't anything he could do, because he didn't say anything this time, just stayed there. When he could manage a few shallow breaths, Much gritted his teeth and rolled onto his uninjured side, burying the less-bruised side of his face in the blankets and wishing Djaq was back from wherever she'd gone. She always had something to help. All he wanted to do right now was sleep until everything stopped hurting.

He half-expected Allan to say something, treat the whole situation like a joke, as always. But instead he just sat there beside Much in the quiet, letting the crackling fire fill the silence as Much found a rhythm in breathing again and tried not to move at all. The resulting stillness was almost companionable, something new and practically unheard of when it came to him and Allan. One more minute, maybe two. He could handle lying here for one more minute. This wasn't the Sheriff's cells and waiting for rescue – this was the camp, warm blankets and the fire behind him slowly soothing the worst aches from his back. As he told himself this over and over, until it felt more like truth and less like empty babbling, other words slowly filtered down into the ones he was silently repeating… Allan's voice again, quieter this time, but still rambling on. He didn't sound uncomfortable, like he was trying to fill the silence; his words just meandered on, unhurried and constant, until Much idly wondered whether the whole cave would simply fill up with words at some point, and what would happen when it did. There had to be room for the rest of the gang to fit in eventually, if they ever decided to come back. How did one go about clearing words from a space, anyway? Brush them out like cobwebs, he supposed, or sawdust. Though some words would be heavier, certainly, and he'd have to carry them out one by one. Words could be heavy. They could be painful, too, could burn like red coals. He could practically feel his fingers blister at the thought, and wished Allan would be considerate for once and stop trying to bury them alive under all these words.

And he did, the silence falling so gently that Much listened to the fire's soft crackling for a long minute before realizing that was all he could hear. When he looked up, reluctantly lifting his face from the blankets to see – his left eye was so bruised it afforded him little more than a sense of light and dark – Allan was looking down at him, mouth serious and none of the usual mischief glinting in his eyes. Waiting for a reply, or a response, or something, and Much had no idea what he'd just said.

"Sorry. What'd…" he began, the words sticking in his dry throat, pressing the familiar sharpness into his side, but only for a moment. Allan only gave a peculiar one-shouldered shrug, gaze wandering off over the fire and the rest of the cavern as he said, "Nothin', just… Hadn't thought you could do it, is all." Long seconds stretched between them as Allan's meaning sank in. They weren't talking anymore about the silly acrobats or single-handedly defeating Sir Guy of Gisborne, and suddenly Much felt weary to his very marrow.

Allan must have seen the change in his face, because he went on, "I'll be honest – whole first day after Gisborne got you, I thought we'd have to scarper in a hurry. Lookin' over my shoulder every time somebody coughed. Figured we'd have Gisborne knockin' at the door with all his mates before sundown."

The candid confession stung, but Much hadn't expected anything more, not from Allan, at least, so he said nothing. What was there to say, really? It was no secret Allan thought him weak and foolish, though weak to the point of sacrificing the gang to save his own skin...? The blunt notion hurt more than it had a right to, coming from Allan. Still, it hardly mattered what Allan thought of him...

"Didn't get a wink of sleep," Allan said, still talking to the ground and the rocky walls instead of Much. "But you're here now. I mean, I'm talkin' to you, aren't I?" His eyebrows lifted incredulously, pulling up one side of his mouth as he finally looked directly at Much again. "An' you came through all right, I guess." How he figured that, when even breathing was a chore and he couldn't have taken a step if the cave were about to collapse on his head, Much couldn't begin to answer. "All right enough to tell me off." A snort of amusement. "Sort of. Thought you were just gonna let me say whatever I pleased for a while there, just gonna lie there with a long face and take it."

This was little more than confirmation of what Much had always believed: Allan actually made it his purpose in life to deliberately wind up and annoy those around him, Much in particular. The insufferable man had honestly spun that whole tale of being entertainers and making him their fool just to get a rise out of him, to see whether he was still willing to fight back. To see if he'd have to find somebody new to infuriate, Much supposed, see if his usual target was out of working order for good. There was something odd about the thief's casual words, though… Allan was talking about all this as if it were over, like all his fears of Gisborne descending on their camp were laid to rest. He hadn't thought Much would bear up under torture – he flinched a little from the word, even in his own mind – hadn't thought Much had it in him. Hadn't.

Peering up at the other outlaw, Much managed to stammer, "You… You don't think I- I told him…?" wanting to know if he'd understood Allan correctly, but not willing just yet to say Gisborne's name and invite all those memories to come crashing down again.

Allan only shrugged carelessly again, looked down and said, "Did you?"

The question hit with the force of a blacksmith's hammer, scattering the many things he wanted to say. That of course he never answered those harsh questions, would never have. Doesn't think he ever did, even when it all hurt the worst and he thought he might be injured so badly that rescue would be meaningless. That he doesn't remember all of it, thank God, and prays those memories stay lost in the shadows, but that just now, he wasn't sure… he couldn't say absolutely that he didn't say something Gisborne could use, even something he thought wouldn't matter while he was lying there-

But Allan was scoffing, strewing scorn with the sound, saying, "'Course you didn't," and there was a world of confidence in the other man's tone that reassured Much in a way Allan A Dale's words never had before. "I knew you hadn't the minute we got out of the dark and got a good look at you. Who ever heard of somebody lookin' such a poor sight for handin' over _the_ Robin Hood, Nottingham's most wanted?" He chuckled, a surprisingly warm sound. "If you had, we'd have found you playin' 'Lord Much' over at the castle, sittin' on a sack of gold big as your head. You wouldn't be lyin' here, that's for sure, turnin' every color of the rainbow like you lost a fight with all of Nottingham's guard at once." He chuckled again, shaking his head to himself, and let the silence fall between them again as Much slowly absorbed this new revelation. Allan A Dale, of all the people on God's green earth, believed he'd come through it all right, that he hadn't betrayed the gang or been weak or anything like that. Staring up at the man's sharp profile, painted in shadows and gold light, Much opened his mouth to say something, maybe "thank you" or something like it, but Allan waved the words away before he'd even decided what they'd be.

"Doesn't matter. All's well what ends well, right?" He didn't meet Much's eyes this time, preoccupied with picking frayed bits of thread from Djaq's neatly-tied bandage, and Much half-considered saying "thank you" anyway, because he truly meant it, but the faint sound of voices broke into his thoughts. A ripple of familiar laughter heralded the gang's return, Robin's voice rising in half-hearted protest, drawing nearer. For a few comfortable seconds, the voices approached steadily, and Much drew a small breath of relief. Just one more minute.

Then Allan jolted slightly, a startled curse falling from his lips as he pushed himself off the ground in an ungainly scramble for the other side of the fire. The cloth-muffled sound of him falling onto his own pallet was almost drowned out by the overlapping shuffle of boots and the gang's conversation suddenly filling the cave behind Much's back.

Djaq's voice quickly overrode the others, a whisper loud enough to carry to her laughing companions.

"They are resting!" The briefest pause before she went on, "Or they are supposed to be… if they were listening to their physician's orders, that is…" The wry tone in her lilting voice prompted an innocent, "What?" from Allan that set Will laughing again. Footsteps approached the fire, soft sighs as the gang set down their weapons or sat down, and a dull clap, a hand on someone's shoulder, as Will spoke again, amused.

"Dust was still settling, Allan. You'll have to be faster than that to fool Djaq." A merry hum of agreement from Djaq, closer at hand, before she announced, "I will need hot water for the comfrey. Robin, you can make yourself useful, since you've had such a restful morning, and–"

"I wasn't sleeping!" Robin insisted, voice rising with exasperation, though Much could hear the reluctant grin in his master's words. "I just shut my eyes for half a minute…"

He couldn't stand only hearing anymore, lying like this with his back to the rest of them. Wary of his splinted hand, Much eased himself onto his back, shutting his eyes with a tiny sigh once he'd managed it without any serious pain. That was it – no more moving. He'd be stuck on his back now like a helpless, very tired turtle, but there were worse fates, honestly. There were worse places to be stuck than by a warm fire with the sound of laughter nearby.

Djaq only shushed Robin's protests, to the others' stifled amusement, and her light tread circled the others to stop beside Much. The touch of a cool hand on his forehead brought his eyes open again, and a sweet smile spread across Djaq's face when he met her gaze. He could only imagine how sorry a sight he must look to draw her dark brows together like that.

"How are you feeling?" she asked softly. Thinking about the answer to that question faded his smile somewhat. Just coming out and saying "terrible" seemed ungrateful somehow, but Djaq was already nodding sympathetically and saying, "I will make you something to help with the pain. It will only take a few minutes, all right?"

"I reckon he can last a few more minutes," came Allan's voice from across the now merrily-burning fire. "Made it nearly an hour waitin' for you lot already." This made Djaq's head snap up to stare at the thief where he lay comfortably on his own blankets, then back down to Much with guilt beginning to tighten her features.

"I am sorry, Much. I did not know… We would have been back far sooner if _someone_…" Her emphasis brought a rueful smile to Robin's face, a wince already forming. "…had not decided to take a nap under a fir tree where no one could find him…" For once, his master seemed tongue-tied, only stammering under the gang's amused gazes until he settled on, "I was tired!"

This set off a new round of disbelieving laughter, during which Robin lifted his hands helplessly and fought the sheepish grin forming on his lips. When he could get a word in edgewise, he said, "You were gathering herbs, Djaq – what kind of trouble could you have possibly run into?

"Sheriff's guards…" began Will from somewhere above Much's head, but Robin interrupted with, "Are all at the castle for the Sheriff's return from London. Djaq was perfectly safe."

"Of course I was," she rejoined at once, rising from Much's side and returning a few moments later with her box of herbs and medicines to settle near the fire beside Robin. The glass vials clinked pleasantly, their contents rattling or sliding quietly as she went on, "It was you we were concerned about, when Will and John returned from Nottingham to find you snoring loudly enough to frighten the birds away.

"That was how we finally found him!" she added. "That sound…!" Her look askance at Robin set Allan off again. The man was going to do himself an injury; it sounded as if he were trying to muffle his snickering in the blankets, and accidentally smothering himself in the process. Even Little John's deep chuckle joined in this time, out of sight over by Will.

"You did not," Robin said, eyes narrowing, trying to read her placid expression. When she only offered a serene smile and returned to mixing herbs into several mugs, a shadow of doubt fell across his master's features, and Much didn't bother suppressing the grin that stretched his sore cheek and jaw. Robin had rarely looked so concerned, usually over a matter of life and death, not a matter of personal pride.

Djaq appeared at his side again, holding one of the wooden cups, and someone settled by his head, worked an arm under his shoulders and helped him drink. She'd added some ginger, a familiar flavor that made the peculiar herbal taste more palatable, though he'd have drunk a mug of trough water if she'd promised it would ease the throbbing in his hand, the thousand overlapping pains that belonged back in the dungeons, not here.

He heard Allan say, "Bless you," with surprising earnestness when she crossed to him, probably with another mug. Though he didn't want to sleep yet, wanted the light and warmth and companionship, he shut his eyes again, watching the green afterimage of the fire dance in the darkness, and drifted a little. Not too far, close enough that he heard Will tell Allan about their trip to Nottingham, that the Sheriff was back, Gisborne had met him, and that's all they knew. The lack of information didn't stop them from speculating over what fate awaited the lieutenant for losing the season's taxes _and_ a prisoner, though, and by the time John announced that supper was done, Gisborne had been put in the stocks, banished from England, and made the Sheriff's stableboy, among other various humiliating punishments.

By this time, the conversation had taken on a pleasantly distant quality, as if the whole world had floated out to arm's length, close enough for him to latch onto the gang's words if he liked, but without the gnawing tension that had strung each muscle painfully tight since he'd found himself facing Gisborne in that dark, stained room. It was a familiar sensation, a memory from better times. Before they'd left for the Holy Land, he and Robin had spent several summers as lads cooling themselves in the pond near Locksley, and Robin had taught him how to float on his back one day. Once he'd gotten the hang of it, the sensation was wonderful, with the water filling his ears and dulling the village noise to an indistinct murmur. Utterly content, Much had decided he'd spend at least half an hour just floating and letting the sun warm his face.

Then Robin had dropped into the water out of nowhere like a stone, one swinging arm catching Much across his stomach and dragging him underwater. The next several minutes had ended with him coughing up half the pond, trying to spit the taste of silt from his mouth, while Robin thumped him unhelpfully on the back and tried to get him to listen about how you could climb the tree just there and jump in, and how it was far more fun than floating around like a boring leaf.

Somehow he'd made it back to the drifting and the peace, and he'd had more than enough of tree climbing, and the falling that came with it. Years of learning caution the hard way wouldn't leave him be, though, and finally he cracked his eyelids open once more, just to be sure nobody was going to splash down beside him out of nowhere and dunk him. Instead he saw golden rippling flames and familiar figures, heard John's gruff burr and Will's good-natured voice arguing, the whole gang adding their voices to the debate over the proper way to prepare the rabbits for supper, and Much could tell them all how, could tell them that Will was right, if he wanted to. He was too comfortable to dredge up energy for speech, though, and instead he just drifted with the sounds and smells of cooking and his friends' voices.


	19. Chapter 19

**I liiiive! And nearly a full month, two colds, and several drafts later, the next chapter is here! I hope you all are enjoying the holidays! You've all been wonderfully patient – I haven't received a single threatening letter for not updating, which is lovely. :P **

**So you all see what happens when I let Allan A Dale talk? I end up with a massive, rambling chapter that's nearly 8,000 words long. I've decided I definitely have too much fun writing Allan scenes – it's addictive. Next stop for me: Allan-aholics Anonymous…. **

**This chapter brings a special guest in to narrate: LadyKate1, this one's for you. **

**Wanderingidealism: **I have a feeling that if this version of Allan were also a bard, the songs he'd end up singing would probably make Much go beet red, Robin burst out laughing, and probably earn him a smack from Djaq. He's more the sort for limericks than ballads, methinks. XD

**Lady Murdock: **Thanks! It was fun writing Allan's ramblings, because for once I could just let him babble on, since he was trying to distract himself along with Much. I figured he'd let his guard down a little, too, since Much is about the least-threatening-looking thing in the world right now, the poor fellow. :P

**Prats 'R' Us: **Aw, I love your description of the outlaws as a family. And Allan as the annoying cousin that somehow always ends up staying to dinner… perfect. I'm pretty sure they could all use a scolding now and then. Maybe not Djaq – she's probably the one handing them out. ;)

* * *

A simple trip to London.

That was all this week was supposed to have been. A few days without Vasey's grating voice echoing through Nottingham's halls, summoning him like a hound to heel. A few days for Guy to handle things as he saw fit, with no danger of his orders being countermanded because of the Sheriff's whims. Meanwhile, Vasey would inform the prince of their preparations, what they'd accomplished in these early stages of gathering support and resources for the Black Knights. Simple enough. A transfer of authority they'd enacted a dozen times before without mishap.

How had the situation unraveled so disastrously?

Sir Guy of Gisborne rounded the corner at a ground-eating stride that sent a servant boy scampering for the safety of the kitchens. It was less the threat of being trodden on than the grim glint in his eye that sent the boy running, he knew. Vasey would reach Nottingham within the next quarter of an hour, according to his patrol's report, and very soon would be standing face-to-face with his Master-at-Arms, expecting an accounting of what had gone on during his absence. If anything was sure to result in one of Vasey's infamous rages… He let a long breath hiss out between his teeth as he turned onto the pillared corridor bordering the courtyard, the afternoon light falling between the pillars to leave wide swathes of shadow across his furious path.

Behind every decision Guy made as the Sheriff's lieutenant drifted the knowledge that whatever position and power he had depended upon Vasey himself, who chose his companions with the critical eye of a jeweler, accepting only the finest and rejecting the rest. As things stood, he had the Sheriff's ear, privileged collaboration on his most secret plans, and had even earned a measure of the wary man's trust; these were not things Hood would steal away from him so easily. Every word Guy spoke would have to be calculated, chosen with the care of a swordsman stepping into combat with a dangerous opponent.

Guy's decision to use the tax money as bait was surely what Vasey would light upon as the catalyst for this disaster, but even now, with the threat of all Vasey's outrage falling squarely on his shoulders, Guy knew his reasoning had been sound. The Sheriff's little shell game of moving the chest to his own rooms and doubling the guard was useless, with Hood's many sources of information. Before a day was out, Hood would know the silver's location and make some attempt to steal it. He would have been a fool to believe otherwise, knowing the brash outlaw and his magpie greed. What matter if Hood gave it all away, or said he did? Every theft clothed him in a new mantle of glory in the people's eyes, the same as if he'd fashioned the money into glittering garments. Hood's craving for adulation and applause would not let him pass up this great chance.

Knowing this, however, gave Guy an advantage. Use your enemy's momentum against them, twist and topple, then drive your blade home. So he'd sealed the room, shutters and door, and dismissed the guards to a different post across the courtyard. The outlaws would be allowed to reach the Sheriff's quarters, would neatly give themselves away by opening the shutters for light, and he could snare them all like rabbits as they fled. A second set of men would be positioned to herd the outlaws into a particular hallway with a locked door – a lock he'd had changed himself. It was a neat, simple plan, and the whole arrangement had worked perfectly in practice, awarding him the long-awaited sight of Hood and his men cornered like vermin, whites of their eyes flashing in the dark corridor as he advanced.

But somewhere along the way, he'd made some small miscalculation. Maybe the burly man's unreasonable strength, or Hood's animal desperation infecting his men as they fought. Either way, the solid oak door had broken, pouring out splinters of wood and the huddle of outlaws into the open air. He'd made one last effort, a lunge for the cliff edge as his plan crumbled beneath him, and snared the slowest of them, the one he later recognized as Hood's servant. A poor replacement for a season's worth of taxes and Hood's entire following, but something nonetheless…

Little chance of Vasey seeing things in that light, though, Guy reflected as he took a slow pull of the damp air and strode into place at the top of the castle steps. A careful scan of the courtyard showed his men standing ready in well-polished armor, both at the gates and forming a wide lane for the Sheriff's carriage to pass through. Most were attending their duties elsewhere in the castle and town, but he'd assigned a significant presence to the courtyard for the Sheriff's return: a show of strength and a formal welcome to put Vasey in a pleasant mood, for all the good it would do.

One of his men by the portcullis raised an arm in signal, and Guy answered with a short nod. As the mechanism began to rattle the gate upwards, joined by the echoing clatter of approaching hooves, he clasped his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin as he willed the frustration to settle in a quieter part of his heart. This day would not end in triumph. That was clear, much as it galled him. But he could hope to put matters in the best possible light – and he fully intended to, since only the barest portion of blame lay on his shoulders at all.

Two matched white stallions swung the Sheriff's carriage through the gateway in grand style, tossing their heads and making a fuss of the bits as if they were the Prince's own. Four mounted guards at each corner of the carriage reined in as the stallions came to a sharp stop before the steps. A little flurry of servants descended upon the courtyard, taking reins, reaching for luggage, and quickly opening the carriage door.

A moment later the Sheriff of Nottingham stepped down, surveying the ranks of armored men with a wide, toothy grin. The only change to his usual black garments was the addition of a voluminous dark traveling cloak to ward off the wintry chill in the air; the older man's taste for finery had dictated the thick ermine trim, no doubt, which gave the disturbing impression that an immense white-furred snake was slung over his shoulders, lazily considering its potential meal. With a chuckle, Vasey gave a congenial nod to the assembled guards and turned to the steps; his gaze slid up to meet Guy's, and without a word exchanged, before the black sandals had even touched the lowest step, Guy of Gisborne ceased to be steward of Nottingham. As if he'd exhaled and lost his grip on that power as he breathed, let it tumble down to the enigmatic man ascending the steps, once again he was merely the Master-at-Arms, lieutenant to the Sheriff: a position of undeniable power, but just as assuredly a step below the casual lordship wielded by the older man now standing beside him.

"My lord," Guy said with a slight inclination of his head. It was the greeting courtesy and rank demanded, a formal acknowledgement he offered without resentment, but the gesture was empty. The power already lay back in its master's hands, which were idly toying with a pair of expensive leather gloves, slapping them into one palm as the Sheriff took one last look at the assembled soldiers.

"Well, I see the castle's still standing," Vasey quipped in reply. "Thank heaven for little miracles, eh?" Another quick sweep of the courtyard, this time with narrowed eyes, as if inspecting the ranks of armor for smudges. "Hmm. No fields on fire, no peasants in the stocks…" He tilted his graying head up at Guy suddenly, a birdlike movement more reminiscent of his beloved hunting hawk than the palm-sized creatures that flittered in wicker cages far above their heads. "What _have_ you been doing with your time, Gisborne?"

Ignoring the prickle of annoyance the jab provoked, Guy made no reply. Snickering to himself, Vasey turned and snapped his fingers for the guards to open the towering oak doors, leaving Guy to bite his tongue and fall into step. Vasey was a cunning man, a master at negotiating the treacherous politics of England in its current state, and there was an admirable ruthlessness to his ambition, but his sense of humor often left Guy clenching his fists and counting silently to keep his vexation hidden. Let the Sheriff have his little joke, bring matters up in his own time. Familiar a mantra as this was, holding back a sharp response was far more difficult today, with apprehension now joining the frustration twisting in his gut.

"How was your journey?" he asked, following the Sheriff's quick pace along the corridor. He hardly needed to ask, after the way the older man had finished up a long day of travel in such high spirits, and was all but skipping ahead of him now, but it was a safe enough question to fill the silence with. A merry chuckle was the only response at first, one hand coming up to wag a finger over his shoulder in Guy's direction.

"Tut, tut, Gisborne. All in good time… Let us just say that our mutual friend was _quite_ impressed, and by that, I mean practically beaming and wringing my hand. I would venture to say we'll have his complete support when the time comes." This news should have been deeply satisfying, a crucial step toward their goal, but he could spare no time to enjoy this accomplishment, preoccupied as he was with the realization that the Sheriff was almost certainly making for his room, which left him only a handful of minutes to bring up the less pleasant news on his own terms. To let Vasey find the empty chest without any sort of forewarning would be little better for his career than Guy falling on his own sword here and now.

Pitching his voice to carry over their footsteps echoing along the stone, Guy said, "We did have a little trouble in your absence." A groan of mock-sympathy that Guy ignored. "The outlaws." Usually that particular detail would have caught Vasey's attention like a trout on a hook, but his voice held only idle amusement as he replied, "Ah, Hood and his little band of ragtag rebels… Spoiled your day off, did they?" Busy shucking off his cloak, Vasey didn't even turn around as he spoke, slapping disdainfully at the dusty fabric so that Guy wound up striding straight through the thin cloud of particles still hanging in the air. For an instant, he tasted hoof-trampled earth and coughed in irritation, slowing to swipe at his tunic, now coated with fine grey powder, but Vasey sailed cheerily onward with his cloak folded over his arm, and Guy had to quicken his pace or be left behind.

"They broke into the castle," he continued, a flicker of anger blunting his words. Even this only provoked a bark of laughter from Vasey, cheerfully ascending the stairs near his rooms two at a time.

"Probably had their collective eye on the taxes the people of Nottingham have so generously donated to their king's cause." A delighted cackle. "Oh, I would've loved to see the looks on their grubby little faces when…" Without breaking stride, Vasey pushed the door to his room wide, slinging his furred cloak across one of the guards' head and shoulders. "... they found…" Entering a step behind, Guy found Vasey already on his knees, dragging the chest from beneath the canopied bed; his dark eyes caught in the light of the candles, dancing eagerly. "…the strongroom entirely…" Vasey procured a key with a flourish and unlocked the coffer, swinging the lid back. "… empty."

For a long count of seconds, Vasey studied the bare wood of the coffer's interior, eyes narrowing and teeth sliding silkily against each other. Guy leaned his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, as casual a posture as he dared take in the Sheriff's own rooms, and waited. Even the tiny birds in their cages fell quiet, as if a silent roll of thunder had warned them their master was close at hand and no longer in so merry a mood.

"Gisborne…" Vasey's voice was almost conversational, a deliberately false smile rounding his cheeks and thinning his eyes over the sturdy chest between them. "Would you care to explain why I am looking into an _empty_ chest…?" His thumbs had begun a restless caressing of the coffer's dark wood. Guy resettled his shoulder against the stone, watching impatience draw deeper lines in the Sheriff's face, before he said simply, "I let Hood take the taxes."

This finally gained him the whole of Vasey's attention. The man's head snapped upward, leaving the smile behind, while his hands clenched against the banded wood of the chest. Probably wondering whether he'd heard correctly or not; outrage and disbelief waged messy war across his features. Guy wasn't sure whether he ought to be gratified that Vasey immediately took his word as truth, or disappointed that the trust between them could be so easily broken.

"I'm sorry," the Sheriff said slowly, the smile reappearing with a wolfish cast to the uneven teeth. "The travel, the dust… Must've gotten some in my ears." He made a show of jamming his little finger in one ear and working it around vigorously, eyes wide, and the stray thought passed through Guy's mind that perhaps God had made some mistake in His almighty plans, and the graying figure knelt on the carpet before him was meant to be somebody's jester. A jester with knives in his sleeves, most likely: the brown eyes held not one whit of humor, despite the comedy of his exaggerated motions.

"A calculated risk," Guy replied, weighting his words with calm and confidence. He was beginning a dance here as intricate as the most subtle swordplay. The man's mind could be changed, his mood swung in Guy's favor, but only if he finished without a single misstep. "I knew Hood would come for the money, and that he'd find it here." His slight nod indicated their sumptuous surroundings, the tapestry-hung walls. "He has his spies, his ways. So I made sure that when he arrived, he'd run into a little trouble of his own."

The Sheriff rose warily to his feet as he spoke, looking sidelong at the faint smile playing around Guy's lips.

"And?"

"He did," Guy said simply.

"What sort of trouble?" Vasey asked, his approach muted by the thick rug under their feet.

"A score of my best men, and a dead end."

A hesitant sort of wonderment began to spread across the older man's face, widening his suspicious eyes into something less guarded. Gone was the building storm, the black promise of rage, and in its place stood a balding child with bloodthirsty excitement gleaming in his hazel eyes.

"Gisborne…" he said softly, the faintest tug of a smile lifting the bearded lips. "Do you have something nice for me down in the dungeons? Hm?"

If only. Guy released a short breath, taking his eyes from Vasey's expectant face to study the wide tapestry hung on the wall beyond, a hunting scene. Against a backdrop of forest and posturing horses, a silver-threaded hunter thrust a narrow spear through a boar's jaws, scarlet stitches of blood dripping down.

"Gisborne? You know I hate it when you try to be coy."

Returning his gaze to Vasey, to the impatience simmering behind his eyes, Guy replied, "The next best thing to Hood himself: his servant." An intrigued quirk of the grey eyebrows. Lying to the Sheriff was tantamount to suicide, but he'd spoken only truth thus far – the manservant _had_ been in the dungeons. And if he'd learned nothing else from Vasey, it was that some words, some conversations, required a showman's touch. "You remember him. That stammering fool you made Earl of Bonchurch." An appallingly ill-conceived plan; it had grated against all Guy's instincts to execute the outlaw and have done with it. A dead man posed no threat, could not run afoul of their plans. But Vasey had ignored his counsel and instead created an elaborate scheme to collect information against Hood, which had failed spectacularly.

"Yes… I remember him," Vasey was musing, eyes distant with recollection. "Lost me one of my better spies. That serving girl with the…" A vague gesture that could have indicated nigh well anything. "…the face. Pretty little voice, too." His gaze flicked sharply back to Guy, keen as daggers and firmly in the present. "How's his voice, hmm? Sung any lovely ballads about Robin Hood? No? Well, you never could carry a tune, Gizzy – never been one for the arts. No matter." Guy had to swing around to follow the Sheriff's path as he headed for the door, intent on wringing information from his newest prisoner without delay. A prisoner who was out of sight and reach deep within Sherwood Forest now.

Guy was suddenly tired to the core, but forced mastery into his voice as he announced, "He's not here." Vasey halted before the door, and Guy straightened to take a casual step closer, relieving himself of the temptation to sag against the wall. He had to wonder whether this might not be worse than falling on his sword, this slow slicing of his meager chances to ribbons. At least the boar wouldn't suffer long with that single, solid blow.

Vasey turned on his heel at his words, a theatrical wince slowly taking over his face.

"Oh… Gisborne. Did you play too rough and break Daddy's toy?" He tutted, shaking his head reproachfully.

This slow reversal of positions had left Guy standing with his back to the bloody tapestry and empty chest, Vasey standing between him and the doorway. And now he was face-to-face with the moment he'd been dreading since he'd realized the silent figure on the hill wasn't Hood at all, that he'd been duped yet again. All his careful words and planning meant hardly anything, tightly as he clung to them, because in the end, the outcome depended on the mercurial temperament of the man standing in front of him.

The Sheriff stood waiting patiently. There was still a trace of good humor left on his face, fingers dancing with typical restlessness, as if in time with a tune only he could hear. There was still a hope here of avoiding complete disaster. Vasey was no tactician in the field, but after years of working his way up the chain of command through a sea of nobles and politics, people with a smile on their face and a dagger ready to bury in your back, surely he could appreciate that even a solid plan could go awry through no fault of your own. Careful planning and management of resources could almost guarantee success, but without the power to rip open the veil to the future and steal its secrets, there was no way Guy could have prevented this: that much at least should be obvious.

Somehow, though, he felt reduced to a young boy standing before his father, caught in some wrongdoing. Fighting off the illogical guilt that was slowly trying to sink his heart into his stomach, he said, "I questioned him, but there was very little time. Instead I made the decision to focus on retrieving the money."

Vasey's tight-lipped smile twitched, his brows lifting incredulously.

"What is this, Gisborne? Are you telling me you couldn't break his will? You? What, did he look up at you with big, sad eyes, and you didn't have the heart?"

For an instant, Guy remembered standing over the crumpled, still body of Hood's servant, panting, fists crushing faint protests from the leather of his gloves, cursing himself for losing control of his temper and the situation, and his voice rose to stamp out the sting, the accusation of weakness.

"I broke near everything else but his will," Guy snapped. Whatever hold Hood had over that miserable specimen – hero-worship, promises of glory, or some perverse belief that dying for this cause was somehow noble – it had run deep. Deep enough that his blind and misguided loyalty had held up through three broken fingers, though at that point the fight had drained entirely from the man, body language that of a man desperate for an exit, a way out. Another finger, the paltry span of five minutes at the most, and he would have had the location of Hood's camp. But then Marian had appeared, circumstances had spun away, and now here he stood, fumbling through excuses. "If I'd had any more time, I would have gotten everything from him. But I couldn't chance Hood giving out the silver to the people, so I promised him what was left of his servant in exchange for the taxes."

Years of practice coupled with the slow-burning fire in his chest kept his jaw hard, eyes like flint, but he knew he was outmatched by the man standing opposite him. He'd seen statues standing guard outside the cathedral in London, distant saintly faces streaming rainwater, and they had looked more human than the stony visage across from him, disdain dripping from every feature and hardening his voice.

"Gisborne… Where is my silver…?" And there was no viable answer left to him, cornered like this, only a long moment to brace himself as the statue turned back into living flesh and its features morphed into a farcical expression of surprise. "Oh, wait a moment. I think I know this one. Is this the story where the Master-at-Arms bargains with criminals and manages to lose both his prisoner and an entire season's worth of taxes in one astoundingly stupid move? Please, _please_ tell me you didn't actually hand over the prisoner to those-"

"Of course not," Guy interrupted. "I demanded Hood meet me himself, but-"

"It was a trap?" the Sheriff interjected, riding roughshod over Guy's attempt to explain. "Well, there's a shock!" The smaller man tilted his head sharply, eyes sliding up and down Guy's figure like an unwanted caress, and swirled a finger toward the stones at Guy's feet. "Clever little song and dance you did there, Gisborne. Been planning that long, have you? Each and every word lined up like your little soldiers to try and convince me that you aren't a complete and utter bumbling idiot?" The last words were half-screamed, setting off a flurry of panicked twittering and caged wings.

Guy tipped his head down, gaze fixed on the lower edge of the doorframe, fighting the urge to lash out in kind, the way the rising beat of his heart begged him to. This was a lost battle, but he would not allow the indignity of letting his temper control him again, a final humiliation for the Sheriff to throw back in his face.

"We have struck Hood a blow," he said doggedly, loudly enough to cut through the incomprehensible snarling as the Sheriff paced and clenched his fists impotently. At his words Vasey spun to face him again, teeth bared.

"A blow? Are you keeping count now? This is just a little sparring match, you and Hood with your wooden swords and grand words? No! This is Nottingham – _my_ power, _my_ control – being bled for all it's got, bleeding silver thanks to you and your pathetic mishandling of things!"

The fury kindling inside his ribcage leaped, flames that threatened to heat his words dangerously. This was why Hood pulled off victory after victory, why Vasey would never succeed in defeating the rogue lord without his help. Vasey only wanted his successes wholesale, couldn't accept the fact that a lost battle could be turned to provide the means to win the war; if this were a game of chess, then Vasey would be raging over the loss of a knight, drawing all his pieces back like a wounded limb when he could be taking advantage of the moment.

He lifted his head to take a long breath, but all he could see were swaying perches and tiny wings seeking egress in vain. Hardly caring if Vasey heard the weariness in his voice, he said, "It's likely enough the outlaw will die of his wounds, whatever Hood tries, and that's a message he will not be able to ignore. He values people more than their weight in gold, and yet he couldn't save his own servant – that will hurt him."

"I don't want Hood hurt! I want him _dead_!" Vasey screamed, rage strangling the words. "I want him dangling from a noose out there-" His arm stabbed toward the still-shuttered windows that hid the courtyard from view. "-with all his precious followers thrashing there beside him! I want a lieutenant who'll do as he's told without mucking things up every time I step out of the room…" His voice reached a feverish volume, making Guy's ears ring like a bow shrieking along the strings of a fiddle, but all his attention suddenly narrowed on dodging the paperweight that struck the wall a foot away. The smooth stone ricocheted away across his boots, and Guy made for the door while the Sheriff let out an animalistic snarl and lunged at the table for something new to throw.

As Guy ducked through to safety, an inkwell shattered against the doorframe a bare inch or two from his head, spattering cold ink and needle-like shards of glass against the side of his face. He pulled the door shut solidly behind him and stood there a moment with his hand clenched around the iron ring, swiping at the trickling drops of ink before they could reach his eyes. Something metallic – a goblet, perhaps – clattered dully off the other side of the door, and Guy flinched instinctively, as did the two men standing guard. His chest still felt like a bellows, each measured breath only adding to the fire in his heart, burning behind his eyes. But at the same time, all his hopes of turning this defeat into something useful had perished, dropping out of sight into a void he knew he could fill with fire if he chose.

He still hadn't decided whether his anger or weariness would win out when he gathered up the shreds of his pride and left, grateful for a instant that his men had the sense not to offer any sympathetic words. He didn't trust himself not to strike them, however well-intentioned their platitudes might have been.

Measured step after step gradually buried the sound of Vasey's continued outburst behind layers of stone and Guy found himself alongside the courtyard once more, the spaces between the pillars' shadows tinted golden with the beginnings of sunset. Two men stood at their post by the lowered portcullis, pikes in hand, while a stable boy led one of the guards' mounts across the empty space, watching the stallion's gait carefully. To the hollow tempo of hooves on stone, Guy stopped and leaned wearily against one of the wide pillars, hidden from view and able to let fury wrench at his features without witness.

He should have known better than to hope for any more positive outcome. He should have known, and yet he stood here with injustice searing hot lines across his heart, clenching his jaw, because his reasoning had been sound, his movements careful, and had his men been a few seconds faster, if he'd been harsher in his interrogations, quicker to close off the city, Vasey would have been dancing for joy and ready to give him a second lordship. It was the purest whim of luck that his plans had failed, the difference of a few moments' time. It should have worked. If nothing else, Vasey could have paid heed to the effort Guy had expended throughout this incident. He'd spent two dark hours hunting through Sherwood last night, had hardly slept, and managed to keep the mundane tasks of Nottingham uninterrupted throughout this whole debacle. Vasey would have sent men thrashing in a dozen different directions, screamed himself hoarse, and had nothing more to show for it than Guy himself had.

The only appeal this day still held was in the fact that his quarters at the castle were still prepared for him, and he could shut himself away without making the long ride back to Locksley tonight. Pushing away from the cooling pillar, he had taken no more than two steps when he heard someone approaching from behind, and half-turned. The soft sound belonged to light riding boots, and he recognized their wearer immediately: Marian.

She was dressed warmly and modestly in a cream-colored gown, her hair tucked back from her face, pinned loosely somehow at the nape of her neck. The cloak wrapped around her shoulders meant she'd either just arrived or was about to leave, though what had brought her to Nottingham today at all he couldn't begin to fathom. Checking on her pet peasants, maybe, or whatever women spent hours at market doing. He didn't know, and at the moment, he didn't care. For a long moment he contemplated throwing courtesy to the wayside and walking on, but she'd already caught sight of him and quickened her pace.

"Guy?" She sounded pleasantly surprised, a fact that would have lifted his heart under other circumstances. But yet again, she'd come across him at his worst. First in the dungeons, in the midst of inflicting pain, the distasteful and tedious side of his duties. And now he stood dusty and unkempt, ink drying on his face, chastised and chased out like a hound banished from its master's presence. Her footsteps drew nearer, and he fixed his eyes on the battlements in the distance, glazed with honeyed light from the setting sun, offering a short nod as he said, "Lady Marian." His greeting was deliberately brusque, and he prayed she would take the hint and let him go seethe over this newest humiliation in private.

Instead she stopped a pace away, her face growing serious when she inevitably caught sight of the mess on his face.

"What has happened? You're bleeding." Probably true – he could feel the ink stinging where the glass had grazed him – but barely more than a scratch, and not life threatening in the least. He couldn't deal with a woman's hysteria over a little blood right now. He spoke through clenched teeth.

"It's nothing. If you'll excuse me, I am not fit company for anyone at the moment." He turned away to walk on, but she caught his arm, and he tipped his head back with a sigh. The warning growl he'd meant his words to emerge in became something closer to a weary groan. "Marian, please."

"Let me at least offer my handkerchief," she said, her hand waiting. It was the practicality in her voice that made the decision for him, completely empty of anything that might become pity or scorn, and he acquiesced with the faint sensation that he'd lost his last bit of purchase on the reins of his life, left to whatever fate his mount carried him to.

Half-sitting against the wall between the pillars, Guy wordlessly extended a hand for the cloth, but Marian twitched it backward out of his reach with a faint frown.

"What, you don't think I can manage to clean my own face now?" he snapped, but she didn't flinch or tighten her lips in that way she had when she was offended. Instead she sat down beside him with her back to another pillar and leveled a blue-grey gaze at him, lips twisting gently with amusement.

"No, I just don't think you can see the side of your own face." Before he had a chance to protest, she had leaned closer, setting the cloth against his temple to soak up the still-drying ink. "I take it the Sheriff has returned." Her calm assumption and lack of pretension about the Sheriff's infamous tantrums made it easier for him to reply, "He has. Though if you're here asking favors, I wouldn't approach him just yet. He's not feeling particularly discriminating in his targets."

A soft sound of agreement or commiseration. No further questions about what had obviously gone badly wrong between him and Vasey, just the slightest deepening of her frown when her handkerchief came away stained a macabre scarlet and black. When he made to rise, she reached out to halt him without a thought, busy folding the mottled cloth over one-handed to a clean patch.

"There's glass." The slim arm blocking his way dropped suddenly, color blossoming faintly across the rise of her cheekbones. Her usual cool mask fell back into place a moment later, and she brought the cloth to his face again, dabbing carefully as she went on, "I'll see if I can brush it out…"

Silence fell between them again, concerned on her side, and filled with a thousand competing thoughts on his.

She hadn't said what her business in the castle was this evening, but perhaps it didn't matter. She'd also never offered an explanation for her presence in the dungeons the previous morning, as if the message had slipped her mind. Yet she'd ventured down into the cells to find him, to a place that always put a look of distaste on her lovely face, no matter how hard she tried to conceal it. If the substance of the message was forgettable, then perhaps the meeting itself held more meaning to her that he'd first thought.

He blinked when the silk suddenly pressed a sharp sting into his cheek, and Marian changed the direction of her careful strokes. A combination of the cool air, the chance to sit in relative quiet, and the gentle hand by his face had begun to dim the painful fire in his chest, and he shut his eyes tiredly. The silence weighed in his ears, though, and he spoke the first words that came to mind.

"The Sheriff has decided to blame me for every last piece of silver lost." He heard his own voice as if from a distance, dull and matter-of-fact. There wasn't enough fire left to heat his words anymore. "I don't know what he imagines I could have done differently." Marian did not immediately reply, though the silk left his face and he heard the sound of her fingers slipping swiftly across the fabric, brushing something away. He opened his eyes and she looked up, hand closing around the darkly-streaked cloth as she said quietly, "I've gotten all the glass out, I think." A few tendrils of hair had come loose from their fastenings, and curled along the curve of her cheek. She looked back at him for a short while, thoughtful and serious, before saying, "Surely there was something. Some… some part of all this that gave us an advantage over the outlaws." Something drew her eyes downward away from his, inkstained fingers toying gently with the crumpled handkerchief, and she asked, "What about the outlaw you captured? Did you gain nothing useful from him?"

These quieter words were clipped short. Probably lingering pity for the prisoner, who'd looked a pitiful sight in the brief seconds she'd been there, and revulsion for the whole business of interrogation, which was only natural. It was dark work, nothing any woman, especially one of Marian's station, should ever be associated with. He was surprised she had even brought the subject up, considering her horror yesterday, and kept his answer short out of deference to her obvious discomfort.

"Nothing." The stone was unforgiving against his shoulders and the back of his head, but the sun had sunk low enough to cast across the courtyard in a last burst of bold rays, and he shut his eyes to feel the warmth against his skin. "Not a word."

A soft sigh from beside him was her only reply, and Guy resisted the urge to echo it. A few moments later, a gentle weight fell over his hand where it rested on the stone beside him, pressing carefully over the silver clasps on the back of his glove as slim fingers wrapped hesitantly into his palm. He almost looked over in surprise, but managed to keep his reaction to himself, leaving his eyes shut; he would not risk the loss of this closeness because Marian caught a glimpse of the darker emotions in his eyes. Instead he closed his hand lightly around her fingers, returning the pressure of her touch that communicated her sympathy more clearly than words. Even through the leather of his glove, he could feel the warmth of her hand, a slow, spreading comfort like the departing rays resting on his face. In a moment, a few breaths from now, she would rise, lift formality up between them again like a shield, and they would go their separate ways. Tomorrow he would face the Sheriff again for the first in a long succession of days full of scorn and condemnation to come. But for now, for these few moments, he breathed deeply, and simply let himself be warmed.

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**Writing for Gisborne was an eye-opening experience - I surprised myself with how much I identified with the poor fellow. And now, a question for all you awesome people out there: How do you like your hurt/comfort/recovery - rare, or well-done? ;)**

**I'm torn between extending our last few chapters with the gang into several, or sticking with just one more chapter as originally planned. I'm biased, as I'm experiencing a bit of separation anxiety in letting this particular fic go... They grow up so fast... *sniffle* I don't want to draw out Much's recovery and the gang's eventual return to normalcy to the point of tedium, though, so what do you think? One more good, solid chapter, or are you still craving comfort after all Much's hurt? Is there anything that simply must be included before the end? Let me know what you have in mind, and I'll see what the gang cooperates with. :)**


	20. Chapter 20

I'm so sorry for the massive delay, everybody. It was unavoidable, really, but I'm still really sorry. Apart from realizing I had very little concrete detail in mind for Much's recovery and thus having to start from scratch, I've had only limited access to watching the Robin Hood episodes, so I was stuck with a growing case of writer's block, unable to figure out how characters would react and whatnot. This has now been remedied (thanks to the powers of the Internet), and I humbly offer this monster-size chapter as a peace offering in thanks for your patience and reviews!

Also, just as a disclaimer: though I did all the research I could for the sake of realism in this chapter, and gave Djaq the benefit of the doubt when it comes to her medical experience, I trust you all know better than to take medical advice or techniques from characters who still think leeches can help you balance your humours. ;)

**Wanderingidealism**: One order of hurt/comfort/recovery, well-done, with a side of feels coming right up! Would you like cries with that? :P (Actually, there probably won't be tears due to this chapter – we're on the upswing now, with just a few last hurdles to face…)

**LadyMurdock**: It's true Robin's not much of a talker, but even he can't just ignore the magnitude of what Much has done for them this time. And if he doesn't end up having a meaningful talk with Much soon, the rest of the gang will probably take matters into their own hands. :P

**TheCrumpet**: Thank you so very much! It's always awesome to hear from the ninja clan (and now I've got this image of a crumpet with a little ninja mask…), and telling me you created an account just to review is a huuuge compliment! Your review had me smiling all week. I hope you like this chapter too! :)

**Prats 'R' Us**: The Sheriff's dialogue was disturbingly easy to write, compared to some of the others'. The one line you mentioned just leaped into my mind fully formed, like Vasey was there with his Cheshire Cat smile, as you said, giving me suggestions. *shudder* Hmmm…. Sequels, eh? I think I hear the patter of plot-bunny paws approaching… :D I'm open to any ideas or suggestions, if you've got some!

**Anonymous**: Thank you! And you're very welcome – I'm so glad to find so many people enjoying my attempt to give the poor fellow the respect he deserves. Much was my favorite character from the very first episode, and I couldn't resist the siren call of the muse to write for him. ^_^

**Lady Chekov**: I made this little squeaky sound when I saw your name on the wonderful review you posted – your lovely Much-focused stories were some of the first I read, and were the original inspiration I had for writing my own Much-y tale! It makes me ridiculously happy to hear that you're enjoying this story. I feel like I ought to ask for a virtual autograph or something. :D

**Ordis**: I'm totally with you on the hugs thing. I'm pretty sure that would resolve most, if not all, of Gisborne's problems, and probably eke a smile out of the man to boot. Hugs are astonishingly effective and restorative things, don't ya know. ^_^ Thanks for stopping by to review!

* * *

The morning dawned cool and grey, the gentle hush of rain wearing the edges of the gang's lingering cheer to something more somber. Robin squirmed lower under his blanket, trying to block out the weak light invading his sleep. Though dawn was usually the gang's cue to rise and set to the day's work, he'd allowed them all a late morning this once. Heaven knew they all sorely needed the rest, with two men wounded and the rest of them going about with circles under their eyes. Relieved sighs had gone up around the fire last night at his announcement, making him chuckle wearily, though his mood had been solemn as he glanced at the two already-occupied bedrolls and said, "Don't wake me for anything tomorrow unless it's King Richard himself riding up to our doorstep," only half in jest.

The dawn light, watery and half-hearted though it was, didn't seem to care how badly he craved more sleep. It slid over his hunched shoulder to glow rose-pink through his eyelids, an unwanted guest no amount of wishing could dismiss. Finally, Robin dragged the blanket up over his head entirely and took a full breath in the darkness, inhaling the warm scents of wool, woodsmoke, and damp earth until he felt sleep thickening his thoughts and drawing him down again….

A stifled grunt of pain jerked him back to full awareness in a heartbeat, and Robin shoved himself up on one elbow, blinking hard to clear his eyes as he stared around the circle of blanket-shrouded figures. Much was his first thought, but the injured man's breaths were soft and even, the frown tensing his battered face too slight to match the force of the sound he'd heard. A moment later, a curt groan that might've been a muffled word broke the silence in the cave again, and Robin's gaze flew over the low fire to where Allan lay.

The thief was stretched across his bed, one arm flung over his eyes while his other hand slowly mangled the blanket beside him. Before Robin could determine from the clenched jaw and barely-visible tremor in the hands whether he needed immediate help or not, Allan breathed a fervent, carefully enunciated phrase and Robin huffed in surprise when he recognized it, impressed despite himself. Hadn't heard _that_ one since the sea voyage home from Acre. One space farther around the fire, Will's dark tousled head swung up sharply, eyebrows soaring high.

"…Good morning to you, too…"

"Shut up," Allan snarled back through gritted teeth, a sure sign he wasn't so terribly bad off. It was when he went quiet over an injury that you had to worry. Running his hand over his face, Allan glared at them both by turns for a moment, then muttered, "Forgot about my leg…. Tried to get up…."

"How do you forget you've got a hole in your leg?" Will asked, a barely-suppressed smile coloring his words, which drew a dagger-keen glare from the thief that swore vengeance as soon as Allan could humanly accomplish it. For the moment, though, he simply turned his scowl to the cave entrance, dragging his blanket up again, and Will snorted quietly.

Robin caught sight of Djaq's warm gaze across the fire, a gentle smirk teasing the corner of her mouth. He exchanged a wordless 'good morning' with her, one half-smile for another, before Djaq rose and wandered to the rear of the shadowy cave, lifting aside sacks of food to gather what she needed to make breakfast. Will tossed back his own blanket to help as Little John rolled over with an indecipherable grumble and began slowly untangling himself from his coat.

Soon, all four unhurt members of the gang were up and about, shaking off the last nagging wisps of sleep. The air drifting in from the cavern mouth was cool and heavy with rain, a barely-noticed murmur under their drowsy conversation. Robin's brief venture to peer outside, a few cold drops tapping his face, told him he'd slept longer than he'd realized, and though the wooly clouds hid all but a distant glow of sunlight, it was well past dawn. After the celebratory mood around the fire the previous night, the unceasing whisper in the trees outside the cave sounded strangely mournful.

Little John roused himself enough to start cutting chunks of bread while Djaq set out and sliced portions of cheese for each of them. The result was closer to a mid-day meal than breakfast, but since it was hours after they would usually have risen anyway, nobody complained. Allan eventually limped over to sit with them, yawning and raking his fingers through his rumpled hair, and for a few minutes, everyone ate in companionable silence. Robin's thoughts, however, refused to remain on the bread in his hand, instead straying to the almost palpable absence from their familiar huddle, the space beside him that was all the more noticeable for not being filled.

Much had not moved since Robin had risen, still huddled under his blankets. At some point last night one of the others had returned his cap; under the beige fabric, lines etched themselves between his brows, deepening momentarily with each breath. The hand Djaq had so carefully splinted lay beside him on the dark blanket, and it took Robin a moment to realize he could see the tips of Much's fingers past the bandages: they simply matched the blanket beneath, dusky with bruising, and Robin's stomach turned briefly.

Djaq's voice broke softly into his thoughts, and he looked up to see her watching him.

"Much is as well as he can be, Robin. Right now, rest will help him to heal better than anything I could give him."

"He needs to eat something," Robin said, the statement somehow turning into a question as it left his mouth, almost a plea. Much would normally have brought up the subject of food after a few hours without, and it had been days… nearly three days in the dungeons, with no reason to believe Gisborne had offered his prisoner food or water, not to mention another full day here with them. But Djaq's expression was calm and sure when she replied, a direct contrast with his own uneasiness.

"He will eat when he wakes," said Djaq, level tone skirting the edge of authority, her experience as a physician matched against his concern as their leader, and Robin let the subject drop for the moment, trying to ignore the worry that made each mouthful sit like lead in his belly.

The hours passed in relative quiet, everyone occupying themselves with neglected chores or hobbies. The craggy vault of the cave's ceiling only rarely echoed back their voices, all of them conscious that raised tones could carry too far into the forest and draw in one of the patrols Gisborne was doubtless still leading through Sherwood. Their voices were low even to their own ears, though, hushed in the awareness that their camp had become a sickroom, at least for a time. Much slept on with only the involuntary movements of sleep to show that he had not faded out of their reach, an irrational fear that persisted in coming to mind no matter how angrily Robin forced it from his thoughts. After what were surely sleepless nights in the dungeons, Much's exhaustion made perfect sense, and Robin himself had slept far longer at a stretch while recovering from his own wound in the Holy Land, but control over his anxious imagination seemed frustratingly out of his hands.

As the morning stepped imperceptibly into afternoon, Djaq sat down to examine Allan's leg, and despite his hissing and complaints, pronounced the wound to be healing well. In the rainy light at the cave opening, John hunched over one of his boots, patching a hole. Left idle, Robin settled by Much's feet with a branch and stirred the winking embers nestled at the base of the fire. The sleeping man's face was creased with discomfort, the blankets shifting softly now and again, brushing along Robin's leg; the soothing effects of Djaq's herbs must have faded entirely by now. He could hardly blame Much for seeking refuge in sleep for as long as possible, though. Let him sleep for a week, a whole fortnight, but just let this whole black business be done with, for their sake and Much's.

Nothing was ever made simple by wishing, however. The pain from injured ribs was tenacious, a maddening thing, and it could be near a week before this first raw hurt started to abate. Then there was Much's hand to consider, and the deep bruising from Gisborne's beatings…. Robin's heart sank to admit it, but there would be no consigning this to the vault of memory anytime soon. Though Gisborne had lost this fight, lost the money and his prisoner, he'd done more than enough damage to make the victory ring hollow.

Once freed from Djaq's ministrations, Allan had scrounged up a smooth piece of wood that looked suspiciously like Much's cutting board, procured three wooden cups from his knapsack, and settled himself facing Will across the makeshift table. The young carpenter's dark eyes focused with wary concentration on the pebble held up between the older man's fingers, following it down to the cup that covered it, and through the lazy shuffle of hands and cups until Allan sat back and raised querying eyebrows.

"A'right. What d'you think?" A few moments' silence before Will tapped the left-hand cup and Allan nodded approvingly, lifting it to reveal the pebble sitting there. "Not bad – little faster this time, then." Again the cups began their weaving dance, and Robin twisted where he sat to watch more closely. Will barely hesitated this time, choosing the middle cup with a small smile, and Allan reset the game, commenting, "Sharp eyes, mate. I must be out of practice or somethin'." The pebble vanished under the right-hand cup and into the serpentine shuffle again, noticeably faster this time. Hardly glancing down at his hands, Allan said, "Think you can make it three in a row?" The scrape of wood on wood halted, and Will grinned confidently.

Allan's cheeky smirk turned into a groan a moment later when Will tipped over a cup to reveal the pebble sitting innocently on the smooth board.

"I don't believe this," Allan muttered, shaking his head and sighing down at the tiny rock while Will chuckled at his expression. "It's tragic. Losin' my touch already, and me in my prime..."

"In your prime?" Will echoed, smirking, and Allan shot him a warning look before frowning down at the cups as if working through the steps in his mind.

"Careful there, mate. I'm not that much older'n you."

Will snorted and said, "Gotta be at least ten years between us. Fifteen, maybe." A challenging gleam came into Allan's eyes, and he said, "Fine then. Since you're feelin' so confident, shall we have a little wager this time?"

"Sure. I choose the right one, and you wash up tonight?" Will suggested, grinning. Robin chuckled under his breath at Allan's predictable grimace. The man could hold his own in a fight, steal you anything you pleased, but ask him to wash up a few dishes… Surprisingly, the thief gave a shrug of agreement, and the low rasp of the cups against the wood began again, this time so swiftly it looked as if Allan were trying to braid the cups together by willpower and speed alone. He had just begun to slow his movements when Will jerked forward, eyes wide and jaw dropping.

"Hey!"

Allan jumped so violently he nearly scattered the cups off the board, a startled curse already forming on his lips as Will gestured indignantly to Allan's right hand, frozen in the process of sliding one of the cups along.

"I saw that! You snuck it off the board!"

Allan's expression of growing bewilderment was a well-honed and convincing act, but not convincing enough to make Will doubt his own eyes. "Open your hand, then, and let's see," the younger man demanded.

Allan started to stumble through some flimsy explanation or other, but something nudged Robin's leg, pulling his attention away from the rare sight of Allan A Dale being caught out, and he looked over to see Much levering himself up on one elbow, face rigid with alarm and bound hand close against his chest.

"What was-?" he began in a ragged whisper as he looked to Robin, wide-eyed. He looked nearly as shaken as when they'd found him in the dungeons, and Robin quickly got his arm behind Much's shoulders to help him lie down again before he hurt himself further, saying, "It's all right… Allan's just being an idiot, and Will's making sure he knows." Behind him, Allan's excuses were getting him nowhere, Will's voice interjecting with half-serious outrage. Much's shoulder trembled under Robin's reassuring hand, though, and his bruised gaze jumped past Robin to the bickering pair as if to confirm that the shout had meant nothing worse. Light footsteps heralded Djaq's arrival, and Robin added, "He had to learn someday that his tavern tricks don't work on everyone."

"S'bout time…" Much mumbled, and Robin couldn't help but chuckle. The flickered smile Much offered was pulled awry by bruises, a fleeting echo of his usual grin that crumbled back into thin-lipped distress as Djaq knelt beside them. She easily evaded Much's shaky hand that came up to stop her from pressing her palm to his brow, and he squirmed under her evaluating eyes, murmuring uncertainly, "I'm all right… 'm fine…"

"I doubt you're going to convince her of that, Much," Robin said, marveling that Much would even try. Despite his meek protests at the sudden attention, Much had barely moved, watching Djaq with worry behind the discomfiture in his eyes. Each breath was measured out, filling his lungs only so far and no more, and the strain of speaking had already drained his face to an unhealthy pallor. As her hand left Much's forehead to lightly encircle his wrist, Djaq gave a wry smile and said, "I will believe you are fine when you can see me with both eyes, Much, and can speak louder than a whisper." Her humor seemed to ease some of the strain tightening Much's uncharacteristically serious features, and Robin sat back to give Djaq room, listening as she explained to Much what Robin had already surmised: that while the next several days would not be pleasant, he would come through it all right, and simply had to rest and obey her instructions. She ended by asking, "How bad is the pain, Much? Truthfully?"

After a few seconds spent gathering his breath, Much murmured, "Only bad when I move, or… or breathe…" From any of his other men, that statement would have been an attempt to lighten the mood, but Robin reluctantly suspected Much was telling the plain truth. The glance his friend flicked over to him looked almost sheepish. Surely he didn't think Robin would fault him for complaining? Did he think he was expected to deal stoically with the injuries Gisborne had dealt him, to simply carry on as usual? Robin didn't know whether he wanted to hug him or cuff him round the head for being thick, but before he could sort it out or do more than look blankly back, Much had looked away, eyes following Djaq as she rose to fetch something.

Several minutes later, after Much had swallowed the last of his bread and yet another draught of Djaq's brew, Robin quietly followed Djaq across the cave where she turned to face him, physician's eyes thoughtful and serious. A glance to the side showed Much lying motionless with eyes shut again, as if his short time awake had undone all the healing wrought by his hours asleep.

"He must stay where he is for at least several days," she began, and though Robin kept his expression calm, his stomach dropped at the gravity in her words. "That is the only way to allow his ribs to heal. His strength and appetite will return in time, and the herbs will help ease the pain so he can breathe more comfortably, and that is very important. If he hurts too badly to breathe as he should, he could grow very, very ill." The worry that tightened her voice in the last few words was enough for Robin to immediately promise to keep a close eye on Much.

Quietude reclaimed the cave, an abashed-looking Allan choosing to sharpen his sword and dagger while Will knelt with Djaq to sort through her herbs, a triumphant smile flickering across the young carpenter's face when he glanced at the other man now and again. The hours seemed countless, though, dragging on as the rain continued, and Robin couldn't find a way to shake away the tension that had begun to dog him, his efforts to relax as vain as trying to escape the hem of his own cloak.

After their brief exchange when he woke, Much didn't speak again that day, dozing fitfully between the times someone woke him to offer something to eat or drink. There seemed to be hardly any position that afforded him real relief, even lying on his back or curled gingerly on his uninjured side. The rustle of his blankets whispered restlessly around the cave every few hours as the effects of the herbs began to dim, and Robin found himself looking up every time he heard it, tensed as if his friend's discomfort was something he could fight with blade and bow.

A lull in the rain late in the afternoon gave his men the chance to stretch their legs, though nobody ranged far; Gisborne didn't know where their camp was, but that didn't mean he wasn't still out there searching, waiting for them to let their guard down. Robin waved the others out, sitting at the mouth of the narrow rocky entrance and letting his mind wander in the damp-laden branches, depending on instinct to keep an ear and eye out for danger as he lost track of time. He barely heard the low sound full of pain long minutes later, but it set him scrambling back to the fire, where he found Much trembling on his side, the heel of his hand pressed between his eyes. He had to repeat Much's name twice, hand firm on the back of his neck, before Much's eyelids flickered, a flash of blue seeking him blindly as Will entered the cave, alarm spreading across the younger man's face when he caught sight of them.

Between too-thin gasps, Much managed to whimper Djaq's name, and Will sprinted back out at Robin's command, leaving him to fumble for calming words as he watched the cave entrance for Djaq's return. Whether the herbs had worn off too soon or Much had somehow aggravated his wounds, Robin could only guess at one or the other, and it hardly mattered. The broken syllables of Much's breathless attempt at a Pater Noster counted the seconds, and the worry roiling in Robin's stomach sank into his bones like ice.

When Djaq appeared a long minute later, taking Robin's place, she immediately poured a larger helping than before of her tea for Much and sat with him speaking softly until his breaths came more easily. That night, when Djaq offered a cup wafting a lighter scent like strawberries, Much reached for it with an uncaring trust that bordered on desperation. While Much slept in unnerving stillness, Djaq showed Robin the new line carved on the inside of the wooden cup, where he should fill the tea to, should Much need more when she happened to be away again.

The next day dawned just as grey as the one before, and by the time Robin had given his gang their assignments and struck out on his own mission through the sodden forest, a knot was slowly twining itself into a heavy tangle in his stomach. Over and over he reminded himself, eyes fixed unseeingly on the fallen leaves and mud squelching under his boots, that they'd only brought Much back three days ago; there was no reason to expect or hope Much would be back on his feet, no earthly way he could be at this point, not after what he'd been through. Still, the unfocused blue gaze remained imprinted in his memory, only the briefest motion of the heavy-lidded eyes showing that Much had seen Robin leave the cave at all. Djaq had stayed behind with him, as had Allan, for while the thief could hobble around the camp well enough by now, he wasn't fit for a lengthy walk through the forest.

That left the day's errands and chores to Robin, Will, and Little John. While the other two were out checking the snares and searching, most likely in vain, for any dry branches to add to their depleted store of firewood, Robin's feet carried him unerringly toward the village of Knighton, a path so familiar he could have followed it in his sleep – he'd done so often enough in his dreams. He reached the sturdy walls of Knighton Hall and swung up to the beams beside Marian's window without seeing a soul other than the distant shape of a farmer or two tending their fields.

The wooden beams were cold and damp, pressing their chill through his shirt as he leaned out to rap his knuckles against the window frame, but the sight of Marian's face as she opened the shutters sent warmth spreading through his chest. She wore blue today, the color the sky ought to have been. When she spotted him, her puzzled frown melted into the beginnings of a smile, quickly masked with worry as she threw a hasty look toward the village.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered, just loudly enough to carry through the rain-thick air. "It's broad daylight – you'll be seen!"

Casting a dubious eye at the sky above, hidden behind a swath of grey wool clouds and hardly deserving to be called daylight, Robin only crossed his arms comfortably and looked back at her.

"Not if you don't tell anyone I'm here," he replied, unable to help the smile growing on his face when her lips tightened in endearing frustration. Her sigh held equal parts exasperation and lingering concern, but honestly, the risk of one of the villagers spotting him and deciding to hunt up a guard somewhere to turn him in was so slight as to be laughable.

Apparently resigned to the fact that he wasn't going anywhere, Marian leaned more comfortably within the frame of the window, palms against the sill and hair loose around her face. Her eyes grew somber in the brief silence, each of them drinking in the sight of the other, and after a few long seconds, she asked quietly, "How is Much?"

"Recovering," he replied, eyes dropping to the wall below the dark windowsill despite his attempt to sound confident. "Slowly." He forced his eyes upward again and hoped the flare of anger was less visible than it felt. If Marian could see even a hint of what he was contemplating for when he next encountered Gisborne, she would probably be horrified, and rightly so. None of it was pleasant. He could feel his jaw tightening, the same gnawing tension returning that had followed on his heels for nearly a week now, and dragged a grim smile onto his face for Marian's sake, adding, "He'll be all right, Marian." She looked unconvinced, but the reassurance he managed to force into his smile seemed to satisfy her for the moment.

"I'm glad to hear that. I wasn't sure…. When I saw him in the dungeons…" She trailed off in favor of shaking her head rather than put into words whatever she'd seen. That hadn't even been the worst of it, based on how recent Djaq said Much's worst injuries were, but he still hated the idea that Marian had witnessed any portion of that brutality. The very thought of it, his mind's automatic impulse to fill in the canvas of the scene, was enough to sour his stomach with startling potency. Certainly no need for Marian to hear any further details, and time to turn the conversation to other matters, to the purpose of his visit.

Perhaps feeling the same, Marian drew a breath, eyes scanning the treeline out of habit, and said, "I suppose you're curious how the Sheriff has taken the news." At his nod, she took on a more business-like tone, continuing, "Well, the last I heard, the Sheriff was throwing inkwells and threatening to put the entire castle's complement of guards in the stocks for a week. So far, that's occupied the whole of his time. I doubt he's planning anything major in the next few days, at least." Without warning, she turned a stern look on him that brought an instinctively innocent smile to Robin's lips. "I'd avoid Guy for a good while if possible, though, Robin. He's livid – I've never seen him this angry. The Sheriff's blaming him for all this."

Robin scoffed, saying, "You don't expect me to feel sorry for him, just because Vasey's thrown a few tantrums and Gisborne got in the way?" Dark-bladed anger jabbed at his heart again, but Robin managed to restrain it to a narrowing of his eyes and the bitterness that crept into his voice. "You haven't seen Much, Marian. He's-"

"No, I expect you to be careful, and not invite more trouble by taunting Guy and the Sheriff," she rejoined, a warning heat in her words. "The petty satisfaction you'll receive isn't worth you putting your men in danger again so soon. After everything Much has just done for you, you owe him more than that." Only the determined gleam in her eye, the breath drawn to impart some new piece of information, kept the sharp reply from escaping Robin's throat. Did she honestly think he was so blind or careless, that he would ignore the magnitude of what Much had suffered – was still suffering – at Gisborne's hand?

He quelled a dark wash of jealousy when Marian went on, "I met Guy two days ago, just after the Sheriff returned to the castle." If she caught sight of how tightly his jaw was clenched, teeth almost aching at the pressure, she hid it well. "He had nothing to offer the Sheriff. Not a single name, a route, nothing. Despite what I saw in the dungeons, and whatever happened afterward, Much didn't say a word against you, Robin. And you _cannot_ ignore that fact and do something that will endanger him before he's had even a chance to recover from this."

Her words seemed to echo in the short space between them. Robin had to remind himself to draw air into lungs that suddenly felt paralyzed. He had known this already – he had. Why, then, did his stomach suddenly feel hollow and his throat tight at this confirmation? The question had hovered unspoken in the air among his men, but in the time since Much's rescue, after searching the familiar face in the quiet moments of the afternoons and evenings, Robin had known. If Gisborne had managed to torment something, anything, from Much, the guilt would have shone in his manservant's eyes like torches in the night. Not to mention he would probably have confessed to Robin at the first opportunity, a rush of stilted, miserable words he'd braced himself for before he and Will ever set foot in the dungeons. But having the reality of Much's sacrifice held up before him like this, hearing the words spoken aloud as indisputable fact, somehow made them infinitely weightier, as if his breath in the winter air had become not vapor but a solid plume of ice thudding to the ground.

This news should have lofted his spirits like a sparrow riding the wind. He knew he should be feeling a golden swell of gratitude and relief – and it was there, a muted glow like a candle behind a curtain – but he could hardly feel it past the strange twisting discomfort in his heart. The weight of responsibility dragged at his shoulders, threatening to haul him from his perch down onto the muddy ground below. His temple bumped into the damp wood as he leaned against the window frame and gusted out a sigh that he heard echoed softly beside him, the tiniest breath of breeze brushing his face.

"Will you promise me?" she asked softly, and Robin had to think for a long moment before he remembered what Marian was asking. Gisborne deserved to suffer everything he'd inflicted on Much and then still more, to answer for every crime he'd committed against the King and his people. And yet Robin knew Marian was right. Deliberately provoking the lieutenant now, however badly Robin yearned to turn loose the righteous fury harbored in his heart, would only pull his men into a fight they weren't ready for. They didn't deserve that.

"I promise," he murmured, receiving a flicker of satisfaction at the faint surprise on Marian's face, probably at how easily he had agreed. He waited for her to straighten, to quip something he would reply to before taking his leave. He was so tired suddenly. Instead, her gentle voice recalled his gaze back to her face less than arm's reach away, her brows drawn in and grey eyes sad as she said, "Robin, how bad is it? Tell me."

He let out a quiet breath, saying, "He's… Djaq says he'll recover. It'll take time, but… He's barely spoken. He can't even stand, Marian." He dragged his fingers through his hair roughly enough to score his scalp. "I don't know what to… She tilted her head slightly, dark hair swaying in the breeze that rippled past.

"Robin, in the Holy Land, when you were wounded, what did Much do?"

The question was unexpected, and he fumbled with the hot-edged memories for long seconds.

"I don't know. I wasn't exactly paying close attention for a few days," he bit out, but Marian didn't snap back, only repeated, "What do you remember?"

"What does this-?" He let out a long breath, resigning himself to dredging through the memories, speaking as it came to him. "He was there, he was always…." The king's physician had been there at times, firm hands wrenching new pain from his throbbing side, but whenever Robin's blurred vision cleared of fever-dreams, it was Much's face and presence he remembered. "The physicians had to get past him every time they arrived, I was told. I'm not sure he even slept," he said, trying to joke, but that wasn't true – he remembered waking briefly in darkness with a weight pinning the blankets by his side, something resting lightly on his chest near his heart, as if to sustain the steady beat through the night. Nobody had told him until days later how perilously close he'd come to death.

Rolling his shoulders and pulling his mind to the present again, Robin looked back up at Marian to find her smiling faintly, and said, "But I still don't-"

She laughed sadly, the sound wafting through the air to him intimately, dimmed by the ceiling of pale clouds.

"It's not so difficult, Robin, truly," she murmured, shaking her head at him. His glare was too tired to be more than a lost-looking sulk, probably, and only drew another affectionate smile from her lips. Reaching out, she brushed away the loose hair hanging near his eyes like he was a child and said, "He's your friend. You'll sort it out. "

As Robin returned to camp, he kept up a determinedly steady stride, strengthening himself with the memory of Marian's confidence, but his resolve faltered again when he stepped into the camp and saw everything unchanged. Djaq greeted him with small nod, Will and John looked round, and Allan lifted a lazy hand from his slouch against the wall, but there wasn't the smallest movement or sound of welcome from the third figure in the cave. Just a slow breath, then another, and firelight glowing orange-gold on tightly shut eyelids.

He glanced over at Much again as he set his bow against the rocky wall, then let his feet carry him over to sit beside his friend. Even the long walk back from Knighton hadn't dislodged the weight in his chest, a dark sensation that felt oddly like resentment. Who was there to resent, though, beyond the Sheriff and Gisborne, whose greed and corruption had made their ill-fated raid necessary to begin with? And for them he reserved a sentiment sharper than blunt and heavy resentment: for them, it was contempt, a flame of cleansing anger that met each new injustice like dry tinder, using it to leap higher and scorch the object of his fury. Mentally, he cast his vision around, sick to death of the dragging heaviness and determined to be rid of it. Marian's words had stung, but she spoke the truth, and he did not hold her at fault for that. He considered each member of the gang in turn, finding affection, exasperation, and reassurance in his heart, but nothing darker. Perhaps it was only weariness he felt, just the weight of leadership in uncertain times. With a sigh, he brought his eyes back down to Much, his searchabandoned for the time being.

And there it was. There, buried beneath the worry and care for the man sleeping before him lurked a strange defensiveness that shifted its coils back into the darkness, a black companion to the silent regret that had softly winged its way back into his mind over the past days. What offense had Much, of all people, committed against him, though? The strength of the bitter emotion burgeoning in his chest was bewildering. What on earth had Much done besides prove himself willing to give his very life for Robin?

Another harsh rasp of discomfort, wrenching itself away from the renewed ache at the thought, but Robin held his gaze steady, frowning down at the blankets' folds, the little mountains and ranges the shadows made against the firelight. He would not ignore this, would not bury it in the back of his mind as he'd done so many other things.

Much's willingness to put himself in danger for them, to hold off Gisborne in the courtyard those long days ago, was hardly a surprising thing. He had always known how relentlessly loyal Much was. He'd often joked with the other Crusaders that you couldn't drive Much away with a stick – he'd come back regardless. And that had been a piece of firm footing in the sliding sands there, the knowledge that whatever else happened, whichever cities fell or how much blood drained into the dusty ground, Much would be standing there with him. It was such a deep-rooted part of them that it had never required words, had sunk deep into the earth of their years as master and servant, as friends. Upon returning home to England, though, outrage and determination to make things right had driven Robin at a dizzying pace, leaving him no time or inclination to think over the past when the present was full to bursting with needs and duties.

The sudden upheaval of Much's capture had violently revealed just how frighteningly far Much was willing to go in defense of the gang. Of course, he could not possibly have foreseen the cost of his bold move against Gisborne – if he'd had any conception of what lay in store for him… Robin gave a weary scoff, resting his head in his hands. No, Much would probably have done it anyway.

Even Acre and the brutality there didn't teach a man to hold up under torture, though. There was little in this world that could. Against the Saracens, few enough prisoners ever escaped to tell their stories, too few to do more than set your teeth and pray you were never taken alive. Yet somehow Much had not only survived three days under Gisborne's punishing hand, but also kept every last thing he knew about the gang and their activities safe. And deep in his heart, down in his veins where he could neither reach nor change the fact, Robin knew it was less for the sake of the gang and their fight against the Sheriff that Much had held his silence – it was that unhesitating loyalty to him, the friendship that had grown so strong between them. The knowledge was jarring, uncomfortable, something his mind and heart shifted from, casting themselves away and to the sides with anxious wonder.

And then came the ungrateful thought: _I never asked Much to do this for me. I didn't ask for this_. It had been Much's choice, his decision. Dwelling on the reality of what Much had been ready to give for him was like being forced to stare down the shaft of an arrow aimed at his eye; he wrenched his thoughts from it instinctively, defenses coming up sharply enough to wind his shoulders tight. Why, though? _Why_ was it so difficult for him to accept, he demanded in the uneasy darkness of his mind. He recoiled from it as if burned, but why? There was nothing dishonorable or offensive in the act. Why could he not reach out and accept this gift as the honor it was meant to be?

The answer cut through the growing clamor of frustration like the whisper of a blade. It hurt to accept this gift, to let it rest in his hands, because the weight of it would bear him to his knees, would humble him to the very earth to acknowledge its endowment. And this realization left the coiled, resenting creature thrashing silently in the throes of death as Robin's breath left him in a long, wondering sigh. When had he become so proud? When had he set himself so high that the thought of feeling smaller than another stirred such fear in him?

Ignoring the dying shudders of pride, he steeled himself and bent his head, silently telling Much yet again, _I'm sorry_. He didn't say the words aloud. He wouldn't ask Much to summon the strength to listen to his apologies now, to hear the things surfacing in his heart that he should have been saying all along. Much had given for years upon years, and now it was Robin's turn to give, first of all by holding his tongue, by putting that conversation to the back of his mind for the time being, though he couldn't help the relief that ran along his shoulders from knowing he would not have to force his thoughts into speech so soon.

Dusty memories, tangled with realizations, were struggling half-heartedly to surface past the walls he'd placed to keep them back, and for a while he sat there in the quiet, too tired to get up and put away the thoughts with activity. Instead he drew up his knees, resting his arms across them, and hid his face in the crook of his elbow, focusing on the sounds of his gang around him: the loose snatches of idle conversation, the rustles, coughs, and steps criss-crossing around him at intervals. The comfortable darkness inside his arms was soothing, and before long he was half-drowsing, a soldier's doze that kept him upright and pulled one arm free to rest soothingly on Much's shoulder when the other man stirred. Much needed to sleep, and nightmares wouldn't make his rest any easier.

"Robin?"

The quiet voice brought his head up from his arms at once, bleary vision revealing Much looking up at him with a puzzled expression. Though the fog of Djaq's herbs still lay heavily across his features, Much was obviously awake and not having any sort of nightmare, and Robin pulled his hand back quickly, still wrapped in a layer of gauzy sleepiness himself. He glanced away, striving to put his thoughts back in order, and to pull his expression back into something less open, but when he looked back, Much's faint frown had only deepened, the effort audible in his voice as he murmured, "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," Robin said, but Much's gaze roamed across his defensive, hunched posture, resettling on his face with doubt turning the corner of his mouth down, and Robin shook his head dismissively, saying, "I'm all right. It's just that the Sheriff and Gisborne have a lot to answer for." Much must have read his deep breath and glance in Nottingham's general direction as concern, however, because he started shaking his head, ignoring the wince it produced.

"He won't come here... H-he doesn't know about the camp, or- or about anything. I didn't-" He trailed off to ease the angry pain in his ribs, hand held gingerly to his side, but his uncertain gaze waited on Robin's response. His face beneath the mottling bruises and scrapes held a hint of pride under the uncertainty. Before Much could catch his breath and stumble on verbally, Robin bent closer, hand light but earnest against the side of his friend's face, and said, "I know he doesn't, Much. I know." Much looked back at him, the words reaching slowly through the soporific effects of the medicine, and Robin said quietly, "You did well, Much."

The words were inadequate, poor and lacking even in his own ears, but Much received them with a huffing laugh that rubbed raw low in his throat, eyes shutting as if in relief, jaw relaxing against the heel of Robin's hand, and it was enough for now. Sitting back, Robin said lightly, "Rest up, Much. We need you in top shape if you're going to save us from John's cooking anytime soon, hey?" The barest motion of a nod was Much's only answer as he began to drift again, and Robin drew a slow breath that felt lighter than any he'd taken in the last year, looking up and out to where he could see sunlight reaching carefully through the craggy entrance to the cave.

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**A/N: **This chapter grew so much in the telling that I've actually cut it in half, and made the second half its own chapter - so now you've got *two* more chapters coming up! The next is well over halfway written, so with a little cooperation from the muse, I should be able to post it in a week or so. Thanks once again for your patience! ^_^


	21. Chapter 21

**Eh, "week or so"… "month or so"… Same diff, right? **

***…..crickets***

***sheepish* Sorry, my dear readers. I had terrible trouble with the pacing and focus in this chapter, which meant I spent ****way**** longer than I wanted to ironing out the smaller details. I'm pretty pleased with how it all turned out, though – there's sunshine on the way, folks! **

**Wanderingidealism**: I had heard of "Much, the miller's son" from the classic Robin Hood stories, but that was all – I'll have to go find that book by McKinley! I liked the series Much from the start mostly because he spent most of his on-screen time bringing Robin back down to earth, making him seem human instead of some shining Errol Flynn type character (which Robin probably sees himself as, actually). I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Lady Chekov**: Your point about Robin's pride made me laugh! It could definitely be a character unto itself on the show… But then, Robin would probably be best friends with it, and then the gang would have to keep both of them in check… *wince* Thanks so much for reading and taking the time to review!

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Robin stayed where he was next to Much, studying the fire, until Will and John together succeeded in turning a brace of pheasants into an edible supper. Though he gave no sign, he noticed the sidelong glances Will cast his way when he thought his leader was not looking, and heard the doubt in the young man's murmur to the burly man beside him. If Will Scarlett was uneasy, the rest of the gang would be harboring their own worries as well, probably wondering when and how they'd venture out again, and waiting on their leader for answers. Time to provide some answers, then, and remind his men that this had been a victory, not a defeat.

"All right, lads," he began briskly into the quiet after they'd finished eating, collecting all five gazes up from their plates. "I've been thinking. We're going to be running a bit short-handed for a while, at least until Allan's back on his feet properly. That leaves only three of us making the trips into town and the villages, though, and I don't care for those odds when Gisborne's this watchful. That's not enough if we run into trouble out there." Allan scowled and put his plate aside roughly, probably guessing what Robin had in mind, and John's sigh bent the flames aside briefly, but Will spoke up first.

"What are we going to do, then?" His serious tone held no argument, but a natural impatience gleamed in his dark eyes behind the firelight's glint, and Robin's own frustration echoed the sentiment. Speaking more calmly than he felt, he replied, "We wait. We lie low while Much and Allan recover, and start up again in a fortnight or so."

Little John's discontented grumble came as no surprise; Robin hadn't expected his men to simply nod and agree with him over such a significant decision. Marian's warning words lay heavily on his mind, though, and the simple fact was that they could not go on as if nothing had happened. The solution wasn't ideal, necessary though it was. The gang had never gone more than a week without making an appearance in one of the villages, at least to check in on the families even if they had nothing more than words to offer. Shaking his head, the older man leaned forward to frown across the fire, the flecks of silver in his beard standing out in the light, and said, "We can't afford to wait that long, Robin. The people need our help _now_."

"I don't see what other choice we have, John. We couldn't give the silver out yet, anyway, with the Sheriff watching for it changing hands in the markets and villages. If all it does is send people to the dungeons, we might as well have left it in the castle to begin with." He was pleased to see a brief nod and a reluctant twitch of the lips or two among the group. They would come to see his reasoning in the end, or at least trust him to make it work out, whether they agreed completely with him or not. "We can turn this delay into an advantage. Waiting until the Sheriff's guard is down will help the people in the long run."

"An' what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" asked Allan, glancing around at the others. "We just up an' disappear, an' the Sheriff'll think he's run us off. He'll be laughin' himself hoarse. We're just s'posed sit here an' do nothin', an' let everybody believe that?" Under the bite in the thief's tone lay a hint of genuine curiosity, as if questioning whether the Sheriff's assumption might not be accurate, and Robin moved to crush that doubt before it could grow any larger, replying firmly, "We're _not_ running scared, Allan. We're not hiding."

Allan's answering scoff was bitter, but Djaq spoke before Robin could, her confident voice at odds with her size, dwarfed as she was between Little John and Will.

"Have you never retreated from a fight, Allan A Dale?" The tilt of her dark head waited for response, but she received none from the man staring moodily into the glowing branches at the base of the fire, and she looked to Robin instead. "This is a good plan, Robin." She settled back between the two men with an encouraging smile, and Robin nodded decisively.

"Let Vasey think what he likes," Robin said. "He'll be overconfident, start to leave gaps and holes we can slip through. And he'll find out the truth soon enough once we're back at it again, when Much is ready, and then we can-"

"An' what if he doesn't want to?"

Robin turned an annoyed glare on Allan, who met Robin's eye for a casual moment as he stretched his leg out gingerly, shrugging off the others' sudden attention like rain off his cloak. His voice was carefully light and conversational when he continued, "He's just had the livin' daylights beat out of him, hasn't he? I mean, 'm not bein' funny, but I'd think twice about it, if it was me there." He nodded over his shoulder at the blanket-covered last member of the gang, shadows playing tug-o'-war with the warm firelight across Much's features as he slept. The strawberry-flavored potion Djaq reserved for the night hours guaranteed him a few solid hours of rest, and also meant there was no worry of their discussion waking him. The sight of his servant resting peacefully suddenly gave Robin no comfort, however, because Allan's question was a valid one with no easy answer. Suppose Much got his strength back, took stock of things, and decided he'd had enough?

"That's his choice," Robin replied a moment later, voice firm despite the uncertainty that darted through his mind like a bird in twilight. "In the meantime, we'll train up a bit, stock our larder for the winter, and keep an ear out for whatever the Sheriff might be planning next. If you get bored," he said, returning his gaze solicitously to Allan, "I'm sure we've got some mending to be done, or you could help neaten the place up. When was the last time we swept, eh?" His spread arms took in the leaf-strewn ground reaching to the back of the shadowy cavern, barely keeping a straight face. "I mean, look at all these leaves!" Allan's overly-cheerful suggestion of what Robin could do with all those leaves marked the end of any serious discussion that night, but there was a more settled feeling among the lads as they all drifted to sleep. They might not like the plan, but at least there was one, and they would come to terms with it soon enough.

Robin said nothing to the others of his personal mission regarding Much, the quiet penance his heart urged him to perform for Much's sake. Apart from the practical need for someone to be near Much while he was unable to sit up or call for one of them, he knew how poorly solitude sat with his manservant. Given the choice, Much would probably choose companionship over air itself, at least until someone spelled out the consequences for him. On an ordinary day, a half-hour of enforced silence would make him fidget. A straight hour or two would see him coming out of his skin with the need to share the chatter building up inside him. So after days, not to mention the injured ribs that had kept him nearly mute since his rescue, Much should have been beside himself, and yet he passed most of his waking hours gazing listlessly into the middle distance, drifting in and out of sleep. Some men needed their space after an ordeal like this, but Much was not in their number, and this was no mere battle-wound that would heal and leave a story he could tell.

So, when Robin came in from the watch at dawn shaking dew from his cloak, he went straight across to sit beside Much again… and instead found John there waving him on to get breakfast with the others. Later in the day, when Robin reluctantly rose to see if he could find some game for supper, a soft sound made him look round to see Djaq settling cross-legged into his place before he'd gone more than a handful of steps. Between the extra tasks they took on to accommodate two fewer able-bodied members, a new routine emerged without Robin saying a word, and whoever had a spare moment or something to work over soon found their way to the fire where Much lay, ensuring that each time he woke he would not find himself alone.

At first, during the collective vigil their days seemed to have become, Much was only sometimes aware of their presence, either dozing or too wrapped up in weathering what pain Djaq's medicine could not dull, only the carefully measured cadence of his breathing giving away the times when he was reluctantly, miserably conscious. The first time or two Much heard the quiet sounds of someone taking their place nearby, he blinked up at them in dull-eyed confusion until Robin ordered him slowly and clearly to go back to sleep, but for the most part, they were left to fill the hours in their own ways. John tended to sit in thoughtful silence, broad back half-blocking their view of his charge, watching for the restless movement that would prompt him to reach for the mug of Djaq's tea warming by the fire. Will filled their sudden abundance of free time with a spate of new projects – a fresh set of arrow shafts, a handful of tags to replenish their supply, small pieces of whittling – all of which he worked on untiringly by the firelight beside Much. Bored to tears with the rain and inactivity, Allan often wound up joining him, striking up a conversation or just watching his friend work. Robin did his best to keep the chatter running lightly along whenever the gang was together for a meal, however frivolous the topic became, because he could see from the corner of his eye how the frown carved into Much's features lessened so long as he had something else to focus on.

Djaq kept up her physician's duties with no sign of tiring. Her father had clearly taught her well, but her dark, guarded eyes hid a surprisingly tender heart that suited her perfectly for her chosen profession, and she had a knack for both putting her patients at ease and gaining their cooperation. Allan's complaints and banter met a worthy opponent in the Saracen woman, and their verbal battles every time she sat to check the taller man's arrow-wound became a regular source of amusement for the gang.

Her care for Much was a softer, more subtle thing than the way she returned Allan's quips and threatened him, turning it all into a game. Perhaps knowing Much would not take advantage of her openness like Allan might have, even if Much had been in perfect health and spirits, her sympathy was often clearly evident on her sun-browned face. Yet it always stopped well short of pity or the motherly attitude Much somehow always managed to evoke from even women younger than the manservant. He had always blamed it on Robin's presence, grousing about "suffering by comparison" and shaking his head so grimly Robin couldn't help but laugh. Right now, though, pity was the last thing Much would want or need, and it was a boon to have someone like Djaq there who understood that.

Between the dreary weather, the monotony, and the persistent flare of guilt every time he let himself dwell on the talk he owed Much sometime soon, the strain was beginning to wear on Robin, though. Had the days dragged on so unbearably for Much when he was left sitting by Robin's bedside in Acre?

But after an interminable handful of days, Robin glanced across the cave, seeking distraction from an awkward attempt to mend a tear in his own tunic, to see Much half-awake, watching the quick flicks of Will's whittling, pale curves of wood fluttering down as his knife coaxed a shape from a chunk of smooth oak. After a moment, Much asked quietly, "What are you making?", his voice hoarse and small. Slowing his blade's movements and blowing away the clinging sawdust, Will tilted the palm-sized object for Much to see and replied sheepishly, "A bear, if I don't botch it too badly trying. I'm good with making keys and useful stuff like that, but I thought I could try an animal or two. Maybe for the kids, when we make deliveries in the villages."

A soft "hmm" of agreement was Much's only response at first, and Will smiled, sending another feather-thin slice of wood into the fire as Robin reluctantly turned back to his mending. Then he heard Much's voice again, barely audible above the flames' merry devouring of the tinder.

"You know Rose, in Locksley?"

Will nodded, hands poised around the figurine. Robin knew her as well; the farrier's wife was only a few years older than Will, one of the more cheerful souls they encountered on their regular trips, and more than once she had generously offered a few cakes for the gang to share on the walk back.

Much went on, "Her daughter, Molly, told me… she told me, last visit, her favorite animal was a donkey." A breathy laugh, tentative and gradual, as Much gingerly rubbed his face with his good hand, as if trying to fend off the growing ache from speaking so long – more than they'd heard from him in days. The memory was a pleasant one, though, far better than the ones evoked by the blush of lavender still staining the side of Much's face and jaw, now greening at the edges. Much had coaxed the golden-haired three-year-old from behind her mother's skirts by offering her the very important job of holding onto the pouch of money for her mum, and when Robin had glanced round next, Much was crouched at the child's level, unable to get a word in edgewise as Molly prattled happily on. He'd had to practically pry Molly's arms from his leg before he could join them as they left Locksley.

Will's smile broadened as he remembered the same scene, but he winced thoughtfully when he looked back down at the lumpy bear-to-be in his hand, saying, "I can try. I just hope they aren't as stubborn to carve as they are to work with." Much's reply was brief and indistinct to Robin's ears, but even after Robin had painstakingly worked a half-dozen crooked stitches into the fabric and pulled his tunic back over his head, Much was still awake with his splinted hand cradled carefully against his chest, watching Will carve.

That was the beginning of brighter days. Though Djaq was still prompt in giving Much his doses of herbs, which by now had perfumed the entire cave, clinging to their clothing until they hardly noticed the scent anymore, the draught no longer trapped Much in a never-ending drowse. Robin was as likely to find him awake as asleep now, and the dull glaze had finally faded from his eyes; he still looked as if he'd just come through a bad fever or illness, and was asleep well before the rest of them at night, but he answered readily when John consulted him on the trickier points of roasting a rabbit, and quite deliberately and pointedly pulled his cap down over his eyes when Allan kept pestering him to try the cups-and-stone game.

Robin filled Much in on the gang's plans (or rather, the lack thereof) for the fortnight, and when a guilty sort of gratitude began to form on his manservant's face, quickly changed topics to how Little John had nearly set off one of Will's traps while the pair of them had been checking the snares that morning. Conversation helped to pass the time, and while carrying along the bulk of conversation between himself and Much was a new sort of experience, he was aided by the fact that whenever Much thought better of commenting aloud, his animated expression let Robin guess nearly enough what the other man had been about to say. Much would have been annoyed to realize he was so transparent, but that fact made their talks far less one-sided as the days went on. Whenever Robin misread Much's expression and replied to the wrong topic or question, Much just rolled his eyes and took a resigned breath to clarify, a comfortable exchange of exasperation and banter like the rambling talks they used to have before the Holy Land. Every now and then, guilt would nudge Robin's mind and heart again, but he wasn't ready to simply bare his heart, and Much, drained and healing by meager increments each day, wasn't ready for that conversation either, not when his loudest tones so far had been barely above a whisper, and no more than a sentence or two at a time.

The unnatural quiet in the cave was soon replaced with talk and jests as before. Much's strength began to rally thanks to Djaq and Little John taking turns at playing the mother hen, making sure he cleaned his plate at each meal, despite his initial, uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. As the rain passed, giving way to cool, overcast days that heralded winter's approach, Robin took the opportunity to start sparring with the lads again, training two-on-one in the clearing below the cave while Allan stuck to bow-work in deference to his still-healing leg. Robin hadn't reckoned on how badly the days of confinement might have been grating against his men as well, however, and as he scrubbed wet mulch from his jaw, picking himself up after a particularly vehement blow from Will's stick-sword, he decided a short trip to Nottingham would be good for them all.

With a mental apology to Marian, Robin took Will along with him the next afternoon. The town held the feel of an enormous prison, a tingle of warning running along Robin's spine at the sight of the doubled guard at the gates and patrolling the streets. People walked with eyes down and children kept close, too caught up in their cares to pay him and Will a second glance as they strode quietly along with hoods pulled low and cloaks wrapped close against the wet chill. When he eventually slipped between market stalls and hanging lines of linen to greet silver-haired Mary with a peck on the cheek, she clasped his hand in both of hers with relief, the lace-thin wrinkles around her eyes tightening with her bright smile.

"Oh, the sight of you's an answer to my prayers. Bless you for coming, Robin." Her voice was fervent, and Robin shook his head, chagrined, saying, "I'm sorry, but we've got no money this time, Mary. Soon, I promise." At his words, the little woman started tutting, one hand fluttering dismissively between them.

"I'm not quite so penniless as that. I'll get by for a while yet. It's what's being said in the market, all that commotion before the Sheriff returned. They're saying one of your fine lads is up there in the dungeons-" A superstitious glance over her shoulder indicated Nottingham Castle, "-or that it was you yourself, and nobody had seen hide nor hair of Robin Hood for near on a fortnight." Will remained silent beside him, waiting to see how forthcoming Robin intended them to be, and Robin laughed aloud, replying, "It's nice to know you have such confidence in me." He dodged a motherly swat at his head, still chuckling, and Mary tightened her lips sternly, unable to entirely hide her smile.

"I take it this was all one of your capers, then, m'lord?" Despite the honorific, her tone was nothing less than skeptical. "Givin' us all a fright for nothin' but your fun and games."

Behind the scolding lay genuine concern, Robin knew; Mary had seen and lived too much to be sincere in calling what they did a game. With no children left of her own, her only son buried before his twenty-third year, she took a maternal sort of satisfaction in scolding him and the gang whenever they stopped by. So rather than explaining, he just shrugged, flashing a roguish grin that would have set Marian tossing her hair in charming exasperation, and said, "I just thought we'd liven things up a bit."

Mary tutted again, shaking her head with a tolerant smile, and turned to Will, saying, "It's nice to see you here, Master Scarlett, keeping this young ruffian in line. Usually it's Master Much, though, isn't it?" She gave an affectionate scoff, eyeing the sparsely arranged vegetables she'd come to sell. "Thought I'd have to throw a sheet over my vegetables here when I caught sight of you – do you never feed the poor boy? Back with the rest of your lads fading away to skin and bones, I expect."

The easy banter faltered slightly as Robin hesitated, unexpectedly tongue-tied. He hadn't expected anyone to ask after Much directly; few enough people knew them by sight, let alone were able to put names to his men. And seriously as he took his policy of honesty with the townspeople, the plain truth of Much's state right now was nothing he cared to share with the merrily shining eyes waiting for his response. Before he could come up with an answer, though, Will stepped into the lengthening pause with a smile and said, "It was John's turn to cook last night, and Much hasn't been out of bed since. Sticks us with John again tonight, sounds like." He grimaced, and Mary chuckled sympathetically.

"Lucky us," Robin quipped, glancing around at the flow of people around them and noting a definite shift in the placement of the feathered helmets he'd noted before. "We'll be back, Mary," he said, pulling his hood up again and flashing a cheery grin. Will murmured, "Take care," and fell into step with him as they slipped between the patrolling guards' paths and out the gates. Once out of sight, on their way through the forest, Robin glanced over at Will, who looked unusually serious. The younger man glanced back, then said defensively, "I didn't lie. She's just got enough to worry about without knowing about this, too." Robin only nodded, clapping him on the shoulder as they walked on, a breeze sailing through the tree trunks to snap their cloaks briskly in its wake. Evening shade filtered slowly down through the leaves, rose like fog from the damp leaves underfoot, and despite their steady pace, night had nearly fallen by the time they reached camp.

Allan's distinctive whistle greeted them from his hidden perch up the hillside as they trudged up the slope, and Will called, "We're back," ensuring Allan wouldn't mistake them for a pair of intruders bumbling along through the dark. As they entered the rocky opening, Robin's eyes swung to Much's bed out of habit, knowing he would enjoy hearing that Mary had asked after him, even if was only for the sake of protecting her carrots. But the pallet lay unoccupied, the blankets stripped away, and Robin stopped so suddenly that Will's confused huff of surprise came inches from the back of his head.

His alarmed gaze found Much only a moment later. Splinted hand resting securely in a sling, Much was sitting up against John's sturdy shoulder by the fire, satisfaction lighting up his tired face. His other hand fiddled with the edge of the grey blanket wrapped around his shoulders, all his attention on something Djaq was bent over across the fire. As Robin stepped forward into the light, chill and aches starting to fade already, Djaq held up a slice of carrot for Much to see, saying, "Like this?"

"Bit thicker," Much advised, gaze catching and returning to Robin as he entered, Will passing in the edge of Robin's vision to set his weapons by the wall.

"What's all this?" Robin asked, his own grin bolstering Much's uncertain smile, his servant's face ruddy with the warmth of the fire.

"This is supper," Much replied, nodding toward the steaming pot hung over the fire. "And that is a thick, savory rabbit stew." A good-natured harrumph rode on the heels of Much's words, and Little John said, "I've been doing it _wrong_, apparently." Much pulled a face and swatted vaguely at the man behind him, oblivious to the rolling eyes. John just shook his head and let Robin take his place, their support making sure Much didn't have to depend solely on his healing ribs to stay upright, and the older man strode out into the night to fetch Allan in from the watch. Will took up the knife to finish the carrots, sharing a grin with the Saracen woman beside him, and she murmured something that made the carpenter chuckle suddenly.

The extra-careful breaths and occasional flinch tensing Much's back against Robin's arm told him their newly-reinstated cook was less comfortable than he let on. Djaq wouldn't have let him up if it wasn't all right, but still… He turned to say something, but the glance Much gave in return when he sensed his master's eye on him was so brimful of pride and contentment that Robin only gave a warm smile, hoping Much would speak up if the strain became too great.

By the time the brace of rabbits had been successfully turned into stew and they were all tucking into their meal, Much's face was pinched with pain, but he stayed stubbornly put until Djaq came over with two mugs for him: one of stew, and one of her tea. Even then, no amount of discomfort was able to dissuade him from taking over his usual role as cook the next day. Breakfast was still a matter of rummaging an apple or piece of bread from their stores before setting out, but Much steadfastly supervised the two later meals, watching every move of his volunteer assistants and insisting on taste-testing each stage of the meal's preparation, un-splinted hand restless and obviously itching to take up the cooking utensils himself.

After a week abed with strained muscles left to grow tight, Much's steps the next day were as stumbling and unsteady as a newborn calf's, even leaning on Robin. Allan's cheerful call of, "Aw, look at that – he's takin' his first steps, Will! Gonna be toddlin' around all on his own before you know it…" echoed around the cave behind them as Much concentrated on a few more limping steps toward the glow of light at the cave mouth, and Robin shook his head in annoyance as Allan's never-ending need to jest.

"You know, master," Much said thoughtfully, pausing to look speculatively over at Allan. "Djaq did say not to over-exert myself… and I must say cooking for five would be far easier than for six…" Ignoring the thief's offended exclamation, Robin hid a smile and nodded seriously, saying, "That she did. I'm sure Allan won't mind – maybe he can eat tomorrow." As they navigated the narrow turn of the rock out onto the hill, he could hear Allan announce carelessly, "S'fine. Doesn't matter. Will'll give me his, won't he?" A snort, then Will's voice, laughing, "No."

As they stood a few feet outside the entrance, the autumn-clad expanse of Sherwood unfurled in all its splendor around them, Robin heard a quiet sigh from the man beside him. Surely Much hadn't let Allan's teasing wound him so easily? But when he looked over at his friend, he saw Much's face tipped up to the hesitant sunshine for the first time in nearly a fortnight, his expression one of utter contentment. There was just enough of a breeze to make the sun's warmth noticeable, and Much just stood and let the sunlight rest on his head and shoulders like a benediction until he noticed Robin watching, gave a self-conscious laugh, and said, "It's silly, but I missed this. The sun." Another laugh. "Never thought I'd say that, not after getting half-roasted in Acre."

Much managed a complete circuit of the cave that day, left hand against the stone like a blind man finding his way by touch. When faced with the considerable gap that formed the cave entrance, however, he realized rather comically after a few moments that he was stuck, unless he was willing to turn around and lean on his splinted hand for balance on the way back. Robin finally took pity on him when it was clear Much was not "just resting" as he claimed, eyeing the far side of the gap as if simply glaring could force it to close.

A day or so later, Djaq unwrapped the tight bandages around his ribs – a decision that puzzled them all, Much included. Taking away support for the healing bones would be the same as throwing away the splints and bindings still protecting Much's hand, wouldn't it? Faced with such a range of reluctance and hesitation, Djaq sighed and laced her fingers together to demonstrate as she said, "The bandages restrict your ribs' movement, which helps with the pain, yes, but at the same time, you cannot breathe deeply." Much's expression stated clearly that he had no desire to breath any more deeply than he had to right now, and Robin was inclined to agree, until Djaq continued firmly, "Shallow breathing means it is far easier to become ill, and for the sickness to move into your chest. You will need to start taking several deep breaths each day, so that…"

The rest of Djaq's lesson was lost on her patient. Going by the incredulity in Much's expression alone, anyone would have thought she had just told him to beat himself in the head with a rock every hour to heal more swiftly. Only after she bluntly explained to him that catching cold and spending weeks suffering agony with every sneeze and coughing fit would be far, far worse than a simple breath every few hours did Much grudgingly agree to cooperate. Even then, their definitions of a "deep" breath were drastically different at first, but the Saracen woman's sheer determination finally won out.

"How can this possibly be good for me?" Much croaked out, good arm wrapped around his midsection as Djaq gave him a bracing pat on the shoulder and stood.

Based on Robin's short quests out to the forest's border and another visit to Knighton, the Sheriff seemed to have gone from raging at what had transpired in his absence to sulking, the bulk of his petulance falling on his Master-at-Arms. There had been a few more incursions than usual into Sherwood of late, but the men on those scouting trips were reluctant and poorly organized, the result of vague orders shouted down through the ranks to do something useful. On the whole, the forest was safe, and with Allan back on his feet and Much now able to make little forays out with them, the gang began to return to the routines they'd all grown used to.

Much dealt wryly with the good-natured ribbing each day as he went out with Djaq on her herb-gathering errands, tasked with carrying the basket on their walk. With only one arm free and unable to bend over to collect firewood, there was plainly little else for him to do; Robin wasn't about to post him watching the road or scouting around when the trudge up the hill to the camp was enough to leave him sitting in thin-lipped silence for a quarter hour, but there was genuine wistfulness and a hint of shame in his face each morning now as the gang headed out. He paid John back neatly for a parting quip about bringing them back some flowers, though, when a spray of late-blooming wildflowers decorated the older man's plate at supper that night, Much only remarking innocently, "Well, you did ask for them particularly…"

Behind the return of Much's jovial spirits, Robin sometimes thought he saw a shadow, but only when Much was tired out or was weathering a more painful day, and the darkness did not linger long. Whatever might have been hidden in those quiet moments spent watching the fire, being left behind each day clearly bothered Much more, and as the days passed, more than once Robin saw his servant clamp his mouth shut on what was undoubtedly a request to come with them. And as even Djaq eased her protective watch, and Much's most significant obstacle each day was fighting to fasten his cloak one-handed, there seemed less and less reason to leave Much behind at all.

As he sat amidst the lingering conversation of a late supper one night, Robin set his plate aside, mind made up. After nearly two weeks, the Sheriff's guard was as relaxed as it would ever be, and it was time they started their missions out to the villages again. The people needed the money sitting uselessly in the chest at the back of the cave, as well as the reassurance their presence provided, the sight of those willing, and now finally able once again, to oppose the Sheriff.

"So," he began, "I thought we might make a trip to Locksley tomorrow." Satisfaction spread through the group in a brief rush of smiles, sighs, and a "Finally…" someone, most likely Allan, muttered under their breath. "Marian says the Sheriff's likely to keep Gisborne busy at the castle until nightfall, so we won't be in any hurry this time." He was secretly glad to see that Much's expression didn't falter at the lieutenant's name, though his face grew serious in the firelight.

Will was the first to ask what the rest of them were thinking. He glanced around when Robin didn't continue, and said, "Who's going?" It took effort for Robin to keep his voice nonchalant, but he managed to keep a straight face as he shrugged, replying, "All of us?"

Much's head came up immediately, surprise and eagerness lighting up his face, and Robin couldn't contain his grin any longer. His gang needed to be able to work together again, and a light-hearted mission like this one would be perfect to get them back in practice. And if it weren't for Much, they probably wouldn't still have the tax money to hand out – if anybody deserved to be present when it went to those who needed it most, it was Much.

Doubt lingered on a few faces, most noticeably Djaq's, but when she met Robin's eyes with caution already parting her lips, he looked to Much instead. The short nod Much gave in answer was a familiar one, firm and determined, and that was enough to satisfy Robin. The grins broadening the rest of the gang's faces as they patted Much on the back and started planning for the morrow was enough to make Djaq lift her hands in reluctant surrender to Robin, even her lingering concern unable to keep the smile from her face at the sight of how happily Much was collecting everybody's plates. Tomorrow would bring him the sight of his entire gang walking into Locksley together, and for just a minute or two, Robin let himself forget the rest of Nottinghamshire and enjoy the satisfaction of knowing all was as right within their echoing, firelit world.

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**One more chapter left, and we'll just have to see whether things go as smoothly as Robin thinks they will… **

**I'll have this next chapter for you all as soon as humanly possible - I know it's hard keeping track of a story that goes weeks or more between posting. I write every day, and appreciate every little upward tick of the numbers that tells me one of you read this story. You make all the frustrating moments and challenges worth the effort, you wonderful people, you! **

**For those of you in school, good luck in these last few weeks before finals! Hang in there! ;)**

**~Si**


	22. Chapter 22

**Remember me, anybody? **

***…crickets chirping…***

**…. Yep. I was afraid of that…**

**Plot bunnies are such fickle little things… They saw I'd reached the last chapter and figured their job was done, so off they frolicked, leaving me bewildered and muse-less. Add to that a period of both financial and existential crisis, AND a near miss with a tornado (it touched down quite literally a street away, but mostly chewed up trees and took a surly kick at our power lines), and you'll see just how much love and toil has gone into finally getting this chapter completed for you! :P Thank you all for being so supportive – what an amazing group of readers to have along for the ride on my first posted story! You've all spoiled me, I swear. I just want to take you all home and give you cookies and hugs. So here's the conclusion of this tale, at long last!**

**Wanderingidealism:** A healthy helping of Robin feels on the way, as requested! (I'll just keep an eye out for the book – it can't hide from me forever… :P)

**Lady Murdock:** Thanks so much – that's so sweet of you! Your reviews are always so encouraging!

**Ghanaperu:** I had a ton of fun writing the chapter with Much and Allan chatting; their personalities play off each other so entertainingly! Thank you for the lovely review! ^_^

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You wouldn't have known by looking, Robin mused to himself, that the familiar figure walking up ahead with the others had been so close to death's door a mere two weeks ago. From behind, Much's silhouette looked the same as always: cloth cap snugged down over unruly brown hair, cloak worn at a comfortable slant that freed his sword arm, his scabbard clanking softly against his leg every other step. Strolling a few feet behind his men, ostensibly as rear guard, Robin was free to pretend the knot of cloth at the back of Much's neck was just his scarf, to ignore the sling and fading yellow-green bruises he couldn't see from here, and simply savor the sight of his gang traveling in unison once more, Much among them as if nothing had happened. It was a frail illusion, true, but a harmless one, a welcome balm for nerves rubbed flinchingly raw over the past weeks.

Today's trip to Locksley was a sort of test, both literally and figuratively a wounded man trying the limits of his strength, but between the noonday sunshine trickling down through the browning leaves and the lively chatter among the lads, Robin was ready to call the mission a success already. Djaq was the only one who seemed ill at ease, her attention swinging sideways to Much every few minutes. Her watchfulness reminded Robin of nothing so much as a mother bird whose offspring was making its first unsteady flight, and he grinned at the mental image that painted for him. Given how long it was taking to reach Locksley, he was glad now he'd allotted the whole day for the trip; despite the ease of their task, just a leisurely walk to Robin's former estate to give out some of their hard-won silver, Djaq had called for a short rest every half hour, and would hear no argument.

Of course, given that all he could see of Much at the moment was the back of his head and his cloak, he supposed Djaq would know better how long her patient ought to walk at a stretch. All illusion aside, Much's hand was still bound, of course, the broken fingers mending slowly beneath the cloth, and after a few minutes of observance, Robin had to admit that Much's confident stride had not quite returned, his gait just a beat slower, as if the level stretch of the North Road were unfamiliar ground.

Much himself was merrily oblivious to their scrutiny, however. Allan had been regaling them all with a tale of one of his many escapades for the past quarter hour, walking backwards to keep his audience in sight, and Much had eagerly joined forces with Will beside him to poke holes in Allan's story. Robin had only been half-listening, but the story seemed to have exceeded believability a few minutes past, the prospect of squeezing the truth out of Allan more entertaining than listening to his boasts any longer.

"It's true! I'm serious!" the thief protested, sincerity suffusing his entire posture and voice, a clear warning sign for those who knew him to take his words with a barrel or two of salt. "Every word of it, cross my heart!"

"Well, how'd you get away from the dogs, then?" Will challenged. Much's head swung from Will back to Allan, who replied immediately, "Crossed the stream. Threw 'em off the trail." A snort preceded Little John's disbelieving, "You can't lose a hound like that. They'll track you straight across."

"What, an' you've tried it? You've swum 20 feet across a river with a dozen dogs after you?" John made no answer, but Much remarked, "Funny. I thought you said it was only a stream just now." Allan's half-smile froze for a moment, and Robin chuckled to himself at the smug note in Much's voice as he pressed, "Well, it can't have been both. Stream or river – make up your mind."

Allan's backward stumble over a branch in the road was conveniently timed, but even after the extra seconds of thought it bought him, the best he could come up with was, "I said river. Didn't I?" The laughter from the rest of the gang drowned Allan's protests as they all came to a rambling stop together at the tree line, Much leaning against a trunk with a satisfied sigh. As always, the little cluster of thatched roofs down below and the proud height of Locksley manor standing across the lake sent a thrum of yearning through Robin's heart, but he drew a breath, slung his arm gently across Much's shoulders, and said, "Well, come on, lads. Let's make sure they haven't forgotten who we are."

Will started down the grassy slope first, a few seconds too late to dodge the playful shove from Allan that sent him reeling. Djaq and Little John followed at a more dignified pace, shaking their heads as they watched the two young men jostle each other all the way down the hill, and Robin wandered down the slope in his gang's wake, his full quiver a reassuring weight between his shoulder blades, a new speed in Much's steps beside him that had nothing to do with their downhill path, and everything to do with setting foot in their home again.

As if lured in by Robin's contentment, a familiar thought came to mind like a wasp hovering by his ear, and he resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. Knowing the thought came from the pricking of his conscience only made his annoyance grow.

He still owed Much words, and they would not be easy ones. Not harsh or hard ones, but they were buried so deeply in the walls of his heart that trying to voice them was as painful as trying to pry a gem from the rock with his bare hands. Each attempt only left him with sore and scratched fingers and a deepening sensation of guilt at his failure. He'd gathered and counted these words at night, an examination of conscience that always came out the same, and though knowing Much would not count the words' absence should have made it easier to put off, instead it left Robin feeling merely selfish.

But how was he to apologize for a hundred vague moments that defied summary? And what good was a promise for the future that was only half as sure as it ought to be? He'd been biding his time until Much could speak without wincing, until Much was able to walk about, letting the days pass with his excuses, and he knew that if he didn't speak soon, the time and words would vanish like water drying on his palms, their urgency forgotten amid the many crises he and the gang faced, and a small part of him reached hopefully for that easier outcome.

Now, in the middle of Locksley, though, was not the place or time. As their boots sent up little eddies of dust in the village road, Robin clapped Much on the shoulder and gave him a little shove as he said, "Go on, then," returning the grin he received before Much scooped the small pouch of silver from his pocket and set off ahead. Across the road, Djaq was perched on the fence keeping watch down the road, the toe of her boot hooked behind the lower bar; up ahead, chickens criss-crossed each other's paths in mindless haste as the villagers came out to greet the outlaws. Posting a watch on the road was more a precaution than a necessity, since they knew Gisborne would be occupied at Nottingham all day, but a watchful pair of eyes never hurt, particularly with at least one of their number not yet fit for sprinting half the distance back to camp.

The gang split apart to clasp hands and call greetings, while Robin stayed in the heart of the village, ready to give away both the silver at his belt and what encouragement he could offer by his presence. The half-dozen villagers welcoming them with smiles and exclamations were mostly mothers and children, the husbands and grown sons of Locksley at work in the fields unless their craft kept them here in the village. Here he was just "Robin", with a few shy "m'lord"s murmured from behind small hands or mothers' skirts, and he knew every face by name save the very youngest. Here, for a little while, he could simply be lord of Locksley, neither hunted outlaw nor rumored savior, and see to his people's needs.

Between careful answers about their unusually long absence that reassured without divulging too much, he kept an instinctive eye on his men, nodding to himself when he saw that Will had found a few old friends; he was already deep in conversation with the boys, Allan leaning against the fence nearby. Like Robin, Little John kept to the center of the village, tolerantly letting a few children try to jump to touch his shoulders. A few moments' search found Much crouched by the blacksmith's home, eyes narrowed playfully at the child gleefully trapping her golden locks under his stolen cap, the three-year-old's giggles audible even across the wide road.

As he watched, Much sat back on his heels as if struck by inspiration, then pulled something from his pocket and offered a little wooden figure to Molly, presumably as ransom. Her delighted squeal of, "A dunky!" provoked a deep laugh from the barrel-chested man standing near Robin, whose soot-streaked hands and face would have proclaimed him the blacksmith even if Robin had not already known Brian well. Much asked an inaudible question, bending his head down for Molly to replace his cap since both his hands were occupied, and Brian chuckled again when his daughter's response to Much's prompting was to pull the beige cloth down over his eyes, surprising the crouching man into relinquishing his hold on the carved toy. While Much levered himself up again using the fence, sharing a smile with Rose as Molly immediately dropped to her aproned knees to trot the wooden donkey across the ground, Robin turned back to the last few villagers waiting to speak with him.

After he had answered their questions and caught up on the latest events in their close-knit community, Robin bade them farewell and turned away to gather his men. He had just opened his mouth to get Much's attention when a shrill whistle cut through the air, straightening his spine with instinctive alarm. He and Much turned in unison to see Djaq running toward them, her post abandoned.

"Riders!" She did not elaborate, instead racing to join them in the middle of the road as mothers called their children back to the doorways and cast Robin anxious looks. The sound of hooves on the curving road to Locksley underscored the heavy tempo of Little John's steps approaching from behind, staff in hand, and Robin knew there was no time to reach Sherwood before the riders would spot them.

"Get out of sight!" he ordered, and his men scattered with practiced speed, sprinting behind houses and sheds while he caught his arm up around Much's shoulders and hurried him into the shadow of the nearest house. Pushing the other man well out of sight at the rear corner, Robin peered back around the edge at the road, listening as the tumult of hooves rushed into Locksley like an ocean wave meeting the shore. A single barked order halted the group, and an armored guard circled back on his winded mount in the section of dusty street Robin could see from his hiding place. Much pushed away from the whitewashed wall and joined Robin, but Robin's glance at him was cut short by an all-too-familiar bellow.

"Hood!"

Letting his breath out between his teeth, Robin lifted his eyes to the house's eaves in frustration, knowing the rest of his men were probably imitating him. The gang had reached cover within seconds, but apparently not quickly enough to avoid Gisborne's eye on that last short stretch into Locksley. Impossible that anyone had alerted him to the gang's presence, and equally impossible that he'd guessed they would choose this day and village to begin sharing out the silver. That left mere coincidence of the most maddening sort, and only the difference of a few minutes to explain why Robin was now hiding like a thief in his own village instead of making his leisurely way back to camp.

He looked back toward the grassy slope, squinting in the bright sunshine and ruing the distance between them and the cover of the trees, only to see Much beside him as tense and poised for battle as if an entire Saracen army had appeared before them. His shaken gaze latched onto Robin's, and he whispered, "Master, what is he doing here? Marian said- She said he wouldn't be-"

"I know," Robin said shortly, trying to remember where he'd seen each of his men slipping out of sight. At least Will and Allan were among the houses opposite, which left the riders flanked, but Gisborne had at least four men – nearly an even match, since Much wasn't up to a fight yet. Before he could decide on any strategy, let alone a way to communicate it to his men, Gisborne's voice rang out again.

"Too much of a coward to show your face? Perhaps one of your beloved peasants values their own skin more than yours, eh?"

The sound of a woman's pleading protests informed Robin that Gisborne's threat was sincere, and he slid the bow from his shoulders, hissing, "Stay out of sight," to Much as he set an arrow to the string. When Much hesitated, worried frown preceding the argument on the tip of his tongue, Robin fixed him with a steady stare, impressing his order on his servant's mind. "Much, _stay here_."

Then he strode out into the open, taking the scene in during the space of a heartbeat: Gisborne's back was to him, his sword drawn, facing two of his men who held Rose fast between them, the woman's gaze so fixed on the lieutenant's face she didn't see Robin until he raised his bow to send an arrow whistling past Gisborne's shoulder. It dug into the earth by one guard's feet, sending him stumbling hastily back, and his companion followed a moment later when a second arrow skimmed past his knee, and their master rounded on Robin with hungry eyes already gauging the distance between them. His tunic was burnt-black in the sun, a blight in the middle of Locksley, and Robin let a devil-may-care grin slide onto his lips, calling, "All right, all right… Impatient today, aren't we?"

Rose ran into her husband's arms and their door banged shut dully. The neatly fletched arrow aimed at the center of that black tunic kept Gisborne warily still as Robin advanced a few careful steps, but it didn't stop him speaking. With a pointed look around the village, now apparently deserted save for the two of them and his soldiers, the lieutenant said, "Where's the rest of your thieves' guild?" The subtle glance he gave the black-and-gold uniformed men wasn't nearly subtle enough, and when all four lunged for their waiting mounts to retrieve bows, Allan A Dale stepped out of hiding across the street with longbow drawn and ready, cautioning, "Ah, ah, ah… Let's keep this civil, gents…" The sight of Will emerging one house down, similarly armed, seemed to settle the question of obedience in the guards' minds, and the heavy tramp of Little John's boots announced both his and Djaq's presence behind Robin, the pair appearing in the corner of Robin's vision to neatly encircle the group. Gisborne's jaw worked in silent frustration, and Robin couldn't help but chuckle.

The laughter died in his throat when one of the guards abruptly broke from the cluster, scrambling for the cover of the horses; Will and Allan yelled in warning, the threat in their half-steps forward unmistakable, and the man froze, hands lifted in belated surrender. But the damage was done – Gisborne had dodged forward out of bow range in that moment of distraction, bare blade rising, and Robin dropped his bow, bringing his own sword up to block the jarring blow without an instant to spare. The sun-white lines of their blades cut the sharp, resolute features across from him into quarters for an instant before Gisborne twisted the crossbars of his sword free and struck again.

Between the instinctive clash and dance of swordplay, Robin saw the gang in a tight circle around the now-seated guards, John leading the uneasy horses to a fence to secure their trailing reins and keep them from being used as cover again. Yet the fight demanded an inordinate amount of his attention, all his concentration soon required to fend Gisborne's blade away; the usual banter and goading was markedly absent, as if the lieutenant's rage had sunk deep, hardened like lead in his bones and granted new weight to each thrust and attempt to disarm him. Despite his focused efforts and the times his counter-attacks staggered his opponent a step, the solid lines of a fence soon loomed uncomfortably close at his back, blocking any rearward movement.

Gisborne lunged forward again, his growling attack suddenly one-handed, his other hand dropping out of sight as Robin flung his strength into parrying the blow. The blade nearly slipped from Gisborne's hand, but something glimmered in the sunlight by the man's dark hair, and Robin pivoted just in time to send the tiny curved dagger tumbling over his shoulder, the point catching like a cat's claw on the side of his neck. His vision filled with dusty black leather, the curve of his blade too late to stop Gisborne's blade landing against his chest, crossbar grinding like a plowshare against his collarbone as the lieutenant's full strength crushed him against the fencepost.

"Drop your sword, Locksley," Gisborne ordered raggedly. When Robin did not immediately obey, the heavy blade pressed roughly against his throat and Robin set his teeth, every muscle in his body winding tight with frustration as he reluctantly let the hilt of his sword slide from his hand onto the thin grass. A raised voice from the cluster of guards was cut off by a rough shout from Allan, ordering him to silence.

Still catching his breath as well, close enough to smell the mingled sweat and leather, Robin watched Gisborne kick the Saracen blade away with the heel of his boot. Thoughts and half-plans ran through his mind like river rapids, born and abandoned with each beat of his hammering heart. He'd underestimated the other man's determination – this time. Triumph had already begun to glow in his opponent's eyes, but the fight wasn't over just yet; the plan was taking longer than usual to come to him, though, and he wet his dry lips, offering Gisborne a level stare.

"I want to see your hands, too. None of your tricks this time, Locksley." The title was dealt out with a smirk, in smug awareness of the irony, and Robin complied with a mocking smile, buying a few more moments to think. Leverage. Gisborne would use him to coerce the lads into surrender or retreat, then either send word to the Sheriff or parade him to Nottingham personally…

Wary movement at the corner of the nearest house drew Robin's gaze over Gisborne's shoulder for an instant, coinciding with a sudden yelp from across the road and Allan's shout of, "Not another word from the lot of you! I'm not askin' nicely again." His eyes snapped back to Gisborne's smirking face, the familiar thrill of combat filling his veins again as Much edged carefully around the corner, sword drawn and eyes set on Gisborne's turned back.

"Well done," Robin quipped past the uncomfortable weight of the sword against his throat, his voice covering the whisper of Much's boots on the hard-packed dirt. Another slow step closer. "I wouldn't celebrate just yet, though."

"Oh? You're not going to make another of your little escapes this time. I'm not taking my eyes off you until you're in shackles, Hood."

"I'm counting on it," Robin replied, as Much's sword lofted soundlessly up to land light as a dragonfly under the lieutenant's jaw. Robin grinned as Gisborne instinctively twitched away, only to freeze as the pressure followed, sharp edge pressing, and Much said quietly, "Let him go."

The calculation behind the lieutenant's pale eyes faded into surprise. Then the corner of Gisborne's mouth slid upward mirthlessly as he leaned into the hilt of his sword and cautiously turned his head to face Much, only the slow, vindictive twist of the crossbars revealing how infuriated the man was at this development. Much's gaze flitted to Robin, then back to Gisborne, but the lieutenant's steady glare was unblinking.

"So you're alive, are you?" Gisborne asked carelessly, and Much's lips parted briefly as if to answer the rhetorical question, then shut again firmly as Gisborne went on, "I figured the crows would have been feasting on you long before now."

Much simply repeated "Let him go," but the silver of his blade wavered, and Gisborne's half-smile grew above the steel.

"I see I left my mark, though..."

Again Much glanced to Robin before swallowing hard and settling his stance more firmly, the arm in its sling held defensively close as if to make up for his trusty shield's absence, and Robin ground his teeth to keep silent as he saw the determined set of Much's mouth falter for a moment.

"Let him go, now, or… or I _will_ kill you," Much stammered, the jerky half-nod only making him look like he was striving to convince himself he could, the effort visible on his face.

"Kill me?" Gisborne repeated, his scoff little more than a breath, as if he couldn't be bothered to put any more effort into it. "If you had the nerve for that, you'd already have done it. You can't even look me in the eyes, let alone strike me." And Much plainly couldn't, his gaze shying from the lieutenant and Robin both, breath coming unsteadily, and Robin had to look away, gazing at the graceful arc of his sword lying a long stride away in the road. A moment or two – that was all he needed, just a moment and enough space to maneuver….

"Beaten till you mewled like a babe, and you still haven't learned your place. Still limping after your master, begging for scraps…"  
Robin's barely-formed outburst was knocked from his throat in a huff of air, bruisingly forestalled by the weight of Gisborne's sword before he'd gotten more than a syllable out; the stinging line left on his neck and the breeze cooling the new wetness there warned him against trying to interrupt again.

But Much was barely holding his ground now, jaw clenched with what looked more like desperation than determination. Watching him was painful, like watching someone fight not to be physically ill, every twitched muscle and indrawn breath a testament to how much effort Much was exerting just to maintain his position. As sincerely as Robin wished Much would stop hesitating and simply strike, dash the poisonous words into the dust, the other man's face was too pale even in the bright sunlight, his eyes and the sickly green bruise standing out unnaturally. By now, Much was strong enough for his blade to have a real threat behind it again, but he still had not moved, and Robin's stomach began to hollow itself out slowly. There was no telling what had gone on in the other man's mind as he struggled back to them a fortnight ago, and it was easy to believe Much was fine when nothing had tested him yet….

Looking down his nose with a disgusted curl of his lip, Gisborne gave a huff and simply shouldered the blade from his neck like it was a pestering fly. Much flinched. As Gisborne turned back to Robin, Robin glared back, fury swirling in his chest like an oncoming sandstorm, and the lieutenant smiled, unperturbed.

"Your hound's not such a loyal one after all, is he?" he said, breath warm on Robin's face. Behind the dark-clad shoulders, Much drew slow, audible breaths, the tip of his sword hovering a bare inch from the earth, and Gisborne's smirk showed his teeth. "Though he howled enough to put any cur on the street to shame."

An inarticulate noise and the white glint of sun on the ferocious sweep of Much's blade was the only thing that saved Gisborne. The sword left Robin's throat to shriek against the incoming steel mere inches from the lieutenant's face, his look of shock emblazoned in Robin's vision as firmly as the emerald afterimage from the flash of sun. As soon as he was free, Robin flung himself sideways at his sword, snatching up the smooth hilt with a handful of dust that ground under his fingernails, and lunged back into the fray just in time to bring his boot smashing against the side of Gisborne's knee, sending his sword swinging safely wide of Much.

To the side, the rest of the gang was moving, reforming, figures darting across the village street to form a semi-circle bristling with arrows, fending off the suddenly freed guards. While Much stumbled back a few steps into the safety the gang provided, hot-burning anger still flushing his face, Robin pressed the advantage Gisborne's surprise had offered them, driving the lieutenant back with blow after blow, appreciatively noting the limp his vicious kick had created. A change of footwork and clever use of leverage forced the lieutenant's full weight on his injured leg, staggering him, and one final heartfelt swing of Robin's fist bloodied Gisborne's nose, sent him stumbling back with bright scarlet dripping between his gloved fingers. Robin's gang interposed immediately, giving him enough breathing space to collect Much with his free arm and throw a triumphant, "Ha!" between his men at the bleeding lieutenant before they were rushing out of Locksley, the bow-wielding trio of Allan, Will, and Djaq covering their retreat.

Laughter filled his lungs, escaping him like intoxicating smoke as he ran, the thud of grass-dimmed footfalls and the irregular wind of the gang's panting surrounding him. Gisborne had not seen a glimmer of the coin they'd given out, which mean the money was safe with the villagers, and they were retreating on their own terms without a mark on them. The bruise he'd be sporting along his collarbone later was a minor thing: he'd gotten worse sparring against the lads.

They burst into the shade of the forest in a commotion of laughter and catcalls, still throwing glances back just in case Gisborne changed his mind and tried chasing them down. Much was markedly out of breath, though, shoulders hunched under Robin's arm, and Allan was limping as he laughed with Will at the rear of the group, and they came to a gradual halt near one of the many routes that led back to camp.

"Piece of cake, Robin?" Will joked, hands on his hips as he caught his breath. Little John tossed Robin the bow he'd collected back at the village, and Robin caught it, spreading his arms innocently.

"What? I thought you'd appreciate the change of pace." Allan looked askance at him from the oak he was leaning against and said, "Yeah, but from standin' around to sprintin'? That's goin' a bit far, don't you think?" Djaq chuckled, and Robin gave up, sitting down beside Much on a jumble of boulders in surrender.

"There's no pleasing them," he complained, and Much gave a wry smile in response that reverted to somber weariness after a few seconds. Perhaps the confrontation with Gisborne had taken more out of him than Robin had first thought; he rubbed the stinging line on the side of his neck where the blade had pressed and dusted the flecks of dried blood from his hands before he stood again. There would be time to settle nerves and toast their success when they were back at camp. Being caught off guard once was plenty for one day. As the gang set out again at a far more relaxed pace, Will stopped to help Much to his feet, commenting, "Nice work back there, Much."

"Pretty light on your feet when you want to be," Allan agreed. "Is it just me, though, or are Gisborne's men gettin' more stubborn than they used to be? Though I was gonna have to actually shoot the idiot that kept tryin' to point you out." This began an earnest discussion over whether said stubbornness actually worked in their favor or not, and whether there was an appreciable difference between stubbornness and simply being thick. They eventually agreed that it came out to the same thing in the guards' case, particularly when it came to the man Allan had practically had to sit on to silence, and it was a minute or two before Robin glanced back and realized Much had fallen behind, standing alone in the trees several yards back as if lost in thought.

He started when Robin called his name, and stammered, "I was just thinking… that, uh… that I'll just go and find some parsnips to go with supper tonight. We've run out, and I didn't- I'll just, uh, just find some and meet you all back at camp in a bit…" He hardly met Robin's eyes the whole time he was speaking, and strode off with his head down without waiting for a reply. The rest of the gang watched him go in the same confusion as Robin, except for Djaq, whose expression was one of unsurprised somber gaze held expectation when she looked back at him, and the accompanying tug at his mind and heart made Robin draw a long breath, the browning canopy above them suddenly a far more inviting view. A crow sailed through the branches, glossy feathers reminding him of imagined wingtips brushing his face and of a very real and solid debt.

He sorely wanted to take Much at his word, to just let Much return to camp in an hour or so with a handful of the sweet roots and smile back in place. Instead, he let his breath out quietly and said, "I'll meet you at camp." Djaq took his nod onward as her cue and set out along the trail with John, and after a second or two of confused looks and unvoiced questions, Allan and Will turned to catch up, leaving Robin looking down the trail and fighting with his reluctant heart.

* * *

Much abandoned his supposed search for parsnips as soon as he was out of the gang's sight, but he kept walking, ignoring the mounting ache in his side in favor of tramping along determinedly, pretending to himself he had a destination in mind. He was fine. Just a short walk to clear his head, get his thoughts settled again, and he would be fine.

Gisborne wasn't supposed to have been in the village. Robin had said so, or Marian had and Robin had repeated it, but it came out to the same thing, and he hadn't realized how firmly he'd been relying on that promise until Robin had pulled him away from Rose's house with hoofbeats behind them and that voice filling the village. It was pitiful how that one glimpse of the man, the sound of his voice, had immediately filled his stomach with tiny stabbing knives and brought the metallic taste of fear into his mouth.

Even so, Much had kept his head. He'd snuck along behind the buildings to keep his master in sight, loosened his sword out of habit, but then Robin was pinned, Gisborne's shoulders blocking his view, and how was Robin supposed to fight his way clear if his sword was lying in the dirt?

He had been fine until Gisborne had looked at him. Try as he might, he could not avoid the strands of memory that drifted on that voice, clinging like bits of gauze that clouded his vision and weakened his arm. The disdain and calm had been all wrong for someone with steel against their throat, and even when the cold eyes blinked, it had felt like Gisborne was still watching him through the lids for that half-second. Robin had tried to help, nodding encouragement, standing ready to dodge aside as soon as Much gave him the chance, but it had been useless. In the end, it had been sheer desperate refusal that lifted his sword's point from the dust and swung it at the gloating black figure. His side had wrenched horribly, muscles straining to complete the wild arc, and even now his arm still trembled from the exertion of simply holding his sword aloft for those paltry minutes.

The forest-green blur of Robin blocking Gisborne's returning blow, the light-headed, giddy run to the forest, and then everyone walking along and talking as if nothing had happened… It was all too much, and he'd broken off from the group hoping a few moments of quiet would let him catch his balance. Except that uncounted minutes later, he was still trudging aimlessly, ribs and tired body insisting he find a place to rest for a while, and he felt no more settled or balanced than when they'd burst into the forest.

He was stronger than this, wasn't he? There was no reason for his heart to keep pounding so urgently, or his hands to shake like the dried leaves far above his head. He'd been the same way in the Holy Land sometimes, when some absurdly inconsequential thing would set off a storm of emotions inside him, and make him scramble to find some way to hide the fact that he felt like he was suffocating, that he suddenly wanted to sit down and cry into his hands like a child.

A fallen oak stretched out beside him like a drifting mast in a sea of faded leaves, and Much sat down wearily, dragging his cap from his head. Somehow this whole ordeal in the dungeons had gotten tangled up with Acre in his mind, both full of thoughts he didn't want to examine and dreams that felt like punishment. There was a fearsome power to memory that let it reach right out into the present, let it change things as surely as if it had hands and a voice. And right now, sitting here with nobody to see him swipe at the tears before they escaped, Much admitted to himself that was afraid he couldn't do it again.

When they'd come across the lost Crusader trying to burn the church in Locksley – Harold, he'd named him – Much had been the only one to really spend any time getting to know the man. Little John and Allan hadn't got over their scare with that weird mask; Will was wary like always; Djaq understandably kept her distance after being attacked; and Robin looked at Harold, talked at him and about him, but was too caught up in other things to really talk _with_ him. So Much might have been the only one to see the deep, deep fear that lay behind the wiry man's guarded exterior. Harold had been terrified of himself and the not-knowing when he might lose his wits over something as simple as seeing another person's face – and rightly so, knowing how much damage he could wreak with his training and swordcraft. Crusader's sickness was a shadow cast over every man who had ever worn the King's uniform, something hardly talked about. "Talk of the devil, and see his horns"… that was how the old saying went, wasn't it?

And maybe this was what the sickness was like, or how it began: this slow unraveling of control as the past took a hold it did not deserve. He had drawn a breath of fresh air back in Locksley and the clammy odor of the dungeons had filled his lungs again, just for an instant. He had felt trapped, as if he were still shackled and at Gisborne's mercy. But if this was Crusader's sickness, if he succumbed to it… Much wasn't a Saracen-trained assassin, or even a knight, and there would be nothing but uselessness and pity left for him.

A bird chirruped invisibly nearby, and leaves crunched loudly under his boots as he startled; he found his hand clenched around the soft fabric of his cap, his aching ribs tight with growing panic. Shutting his eyes, he propped his head on his fist, breathing as evenly as he could, dimly grateful nobody was around to hear the childish sniffle he couldn't help. Ever so slowly, the unnatural distance between himself and the rest of the forest seemed to diminish, the low rush of terror ebbing in his ears as he breathed in damp, earth-scented air, concentrated on the solidity of the tree trunk underneath him, the birdsong overhead. He was so tired. Just tired, and foolishly letting his worries run away with his mind.

Nearby footfalls in the brittle leaves lifted Much's head, prompted him to hastily scrub the last traces of tears from his face and slide his cap back to its proper place. Unless the footsteps belonged a traveler so lost he'd misplaced the North Road itself, this was probably one of the gang come to find him. If it were Allan, and he looked like he would mention Much's red eyes and nose, he'd just say he'd had a coughing fit; Allan might believe the lie, considering how red-faced even a tickle in his throat made him only a week ago, though his ribs were nearly healed now…

Instead, Robin stepped out into sight between the grey trunks to his right, and Much remembered that he was supposedly gathering parsnips to go with their supper. Casting about for an instant and seeing not a leaf of the required plant in sight, he looked back to Robin and quickly said, "I'm getting them. I'm… I'll be right there. I was just…" But his master didn't look impatient or annoyed, and only said, "Don't worry about it, Much. John can handle supper."

"Then, uh, we'd better get back so I can-"

"Relax, Much. He's got the others to help." Robin sat down on the thick oak trunk beside him with a smile that looked only slightly forced. "They'll make sure we end up with something edible."

Left without excuses, Much looked at the ground instead. Tales of coughing fits wouldn't fool Robin any more than his clumsy lie about parsnips had. Robin didn't seem rushed for an answer about Much's peculiar behavior, though. He'd leaned forward on his knees, fingers laced together comfortably as he surveyed the trees, and the seconds stacked steadily up into a minute, then two. Forest sounds crept back into the air, the golden sunlight slid a finger's span lower among the countless tree boles surrounding them, and Much tried to pass off rubbing his sleeve over his eyes one more time as just brushing away a gnat.

Robin's voice broke the silence abruptly, making Much jump a little.

"I'm sorry, Much."

Just those words, and then silence again. Nothing more, except for the uncharacteristically remorseful look on his master's face and new tension in the line of his shoulders. Shrugging slightly, Much replied, "It's not your fault. I mean, it's not as if you told Gisborne we'd be in Locksley today or anything. Left him a note, or…"

"Not for that, for- Well, I'm sorry for that too, I suppose. It was…"

Robin hesitated for so long, frowning after the right word, that Much offered, "Just a turn of bad luck."

"It shouldn't have happened," Robin said, shaking his head, mouth a thin line of displeasure. Much had to laugh a little at that, a snort of wry humor, and replied, "Well, rather a lot of things have happened lately that shouldn't have..." He could create a good-sized list without reaching farther back in memory than a fortnight.

That turned up a reluctant corner of Robin's mouth, but he glanced down and away, his next words measured carefully like a lesson he'd taught himself.

"I should have listened to you, Much. That morning when we took the tax money from the Sheriff's rooms, it was all a trap, and you saw it. You tried to tell me so, but I wouldn't listen."

"Well, you never listen," Much said with a half-hearted smile, but the old complaint fell flat between them, and Robin actually winced. Nodding, he said, "I don't. Not often enough. And you could have died because of it. I didn't listen then, and… and you've been trying to tell me other things, too, and I wouldn't listen to those either."

Late afternoon light caught in the glassy sheen in his master's eye, glowed warmly on the tense jut of his jaw that showed just how much effort this admission was costing him. And while a selfish little corner of Much's heart swelled with gladness to have Robin acknowledge the unnerving rift growing between them, the difference like light and shadow between the need to talk and the need to _not_ talk, but this wasn't how Much had ever hoped for an apology, with Robin sitting quiet and miserable beside him as if waiting for Much to deliver judgment and punishment upon him. This wasn't right.

Shifting uncomfortably, leaves rattling against his boots, Much tried, "It doesn't… I mean, it's over now." He could try to ease Robin's guilt on one count, at least. "I'm back, mostly in one piece… And we're all alive, so it's…" He stammered to a halt, then tried again. "It doesn't really matt-"

"Don't say that," Robin interrupted, startling Much into quiet again. "Of course it matters." His gaze delved into Much's, trying to pour the meaning into him through determination alone. "You had a choice, Much. You could have given Gisborne what he wanted – information, plans, anything – but you chose not to." He took a breath to go on, but Much was already shaking his head vehemently.

"I couldn't have." Surely Robin hadn't been thinking he'd break so easily, too, just like Allan? Surely not.

But was it such an unreasonable thought? his own traitorous mind asked. Heaven knew he'd been perilously close, throat aching with the temptation to turn his next outcry into a name or something, anything Gisborne would be content with. But the consequences would have been unthinkable… Robin might as well have said just now that Much could have cut everyone's throats last night as they slept – the outcome would have been the same.

"I… I couldn't have," he repeated, unable to explain any more simply than that. Robin sat for a few moments, just looking at him with war-weary lines under his eyes and an affectionate smile on his lips, somehow looking at once like the jaded Crusader he was and the young earl-to-be Much had sworn to look after nearly ten years ago. Much wondered whether the same lines had formed on his own face. Then Robin was shaking his head softly, reaching out to pull Much close as he murmured near his ear, "And _that_ is why I love you, my friend."

Robin's firm grip around his shoulders, one loose fist resting at the back of Much's neck, held Much upright and steady despite his precarious one-armed balance. Though the striped fletchings of Robin's arrows tickled his face and made his nose itch, Much didn't care; it was a blessed change to let his shoulders slump a little, to be held up instead of doing all the holding up for both of them, just for a minute or two.

Strangely, Robin seemed to sense this, and they both stayed put until the embrace was in danger of becoming less of an embrace and more two people leaning tiredly against each other.

"So does this mean you're actually going to listen when I talk from now on?" Much said lightly, pretending for Robin's sake he hadn't heard or felt the unsteady exhalation and faint sniffle as they both sat back. Robin looked off into the sunset-drenched forest thoughtfully, letting out a long breath before replying, "I'll try?" with a hopeful wince. "I'm told it's not high on my list of strengths."

"Then I'll talk when you eat," Much decided aloud, only paying half a mind to what he was saying, too busy basking in the feeling that an invisible weight had just been lifted away from his shoulders. "And so long as you're minding your manners and don't talk while you're chewing, you'll have no choice but to listen to me."

Robin actually mulled this proposition over, humor slowly crinkling the corners of his eyes again, before he said, "During a mission, though?"

"I'll bring food along," Much answered promptly, straight-faced. "You're not eating properly as it is. A snack here and there between meals certainly wouldn't hurt."

Robin laughed in agreement and stood, reaching down to give Much a hand up, saying, "Which of us are we talking about again?" When Much only rolled his eyes long-sufferingly, Robin laughed again and started on the way toward camp, reaching back to lay his arm across Much's shoulders as Much caught up.

These words were not done between them, though neither would continue that night. It was like realizing you had been wounded long after the battle had ended, the awareness of blood and sickening dizziness coming over you with no more warning than a sandstorm. Their words tonight had at least staunched the flow of blood from the wound in their friendship, and while healing a wound required a careful hand, meant thread and needle, bracing oneself for necessary pain, this was enough to make a beginning.

* * *

**Thank you all many, many times over, my awesome bunch of readers. This has been a huge endeavor to write and complete, and I've learned humbling things about myself and my writing in the process. There's already a new little plot bunny clinging to my ankle, begging me to write a series of little drabbles sometime soon (maybe one a week…?). If you have any ideas or situations you'd like to see, even if it's just "a happy scene with Allan" or "Where'd Much get his cap from, anyway?", drop me a review or PM and I'll see about working it into a drabble or even a little drabbly series. ^_^**

**Thank you again, my dears – you guys rock. **


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